My Apologies
by Sendai
Summary: New summary. The CIA is only the first group to want John to locate missing weapons in South Asia. Sherlock must help his blogger avoid capture by corrupt agents, the Mafia and more. Can John find the missing arms and romance all in the same adventure? Romance, humor and adventure. Rated M for slash, swearing, violence and abuse. Story for 18yr and up. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings** Slash because that's what I write, though nothing explicit this chapter. Possible swearing, and some silly gross stuff (i,e. description of someone's experiment)

**Disclaimer **I don't own nothin' Sherlock.

**Chapter 1**

_**I have a case that requires me to travel to Paris for a week. Your assistance is not required, so you may rest and enjoy your leisure. SH**_

John re-read the note that he found stuck to his laptop. A note, a bloody note stating that his assistance was not required.

It's the beginning of the end. I might as well start looking for a new flat, pack my bags…I've overstayed my welcome. John felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

He had just returned from another exciting day at the clinic to find the flat empty and his so-called partner, gone-just like before.

John put his jacket back on and went to the pub. Three drinks later, he realized that the pub was in fact dull; it was boring just like Sherlock always said it was. He went back to the flat and sat in the dark sitting room. The flat was too quiet. He missed the sounds of tantrums and breaking glass and someone to watch crap telly with and violin music, especially violin music. He turned some music on fairly low and spent the night in his chair trying to think of what he might have done to antagonize the great Sherlock Holmes.

The week before had been very busy trailing jewel thieves, John remembered. The ex-army doctor had snatched only a couple of cat naps the entire week. Meals were few and far between. John had worked himself to the point of collapse as an undercover operative for Sherlock by day and Sherlock's assistant and bodyguard by night. John had also managed to put in a few shifts at the clinic, much to Sherlock's dismay.

There had been a spectacular chase though the alleys and subways and abandoned basements. During the chase, Sherlock was captured and nearly killed before John crashed though a window, shooting one thug and scattering four others with his gun and his determined fists. There was another chase while holding a bag of stolen jewelry. They had taken refuge in an old warehouse. Sherlock scouted on ahead. Then John realized the building was on fire. John had searched for Sherlock until he passed out from the fumes. Somehow, Sherlock had found his partner and carried him out to safety.

John remembered Sherlock holding him in his arms. He had rubbed his back while John coughed and gasped. Sherlock had caressed his face and hair, and he had spoken softly and gently to John. John was sure that Sherlock Holmes had kissed the top of his soot-covered head.

John must have been delirious. Obviously that was all just wishful thinking.

* * *

The next morning, without any sleep, the doctor forced himself to shower and dress to go to the clinic. Sarah was waiting in his office.

"John here is the schedule for next week, and by the way, you look like absolute crap. Out chasing down the bad guys again?" she asked with a chuckle.

"Thanks for the compliment. No I just had trouble sleeping, it happens even to the best of us," John said with a forced smile.

"Oh, I see, trouble with your boyfriend. I'd have thought the two of you would be inseparable after you saved each other's lives the other day," Sarah patted John's arm. "Don't look so surprised; I can read the newspaper. You singlehandedly rescued that Sherlock of yours from some gang, and then he carries you out of a burning building. Frankly it's so romantic that we are all jealous…"

"Sarah, for the last time he's not my boyfriend. There is no romance. There is nothing there at all. Sherlock is married to his work. We don't hug; we don't kiss; we just… don't. We don't even _work_ together all that much anymore so can you please leave off?" asked John rubbing the sore spot between his eyes. Today was going to be a long day.

It was a very, very long day. John had checked his phone repeatedly throughout the day, no texts. The doctor forced himself to attend to his patients despite his exhaustion and worry. He drank coffee all afternoon to keep awake.

John brought home chicken curry from which he had taken exactly two bites; then he sat and stared at his mobile. He glared at the offending phone until he drifted off to sleep at two or three in the morning.

* * *

John woke after three hours sleep. Having sat up in a chair two nights in a row, John was extremely stiff. His left shoulder was all but immobile until after he had taken two paracetamol and a very long, very hot shower.

He finally broke down and sent Sherlock a text.

**Hope your case is going well. Had a busy day at the clinic and chicken curry for dinner. Saw Molly at the coffee shop; she said Hi. JW **

There, just a nice friendly text, not pathetic or whiny, thought John. He decided to start jogging, today, now in fact. He ran for an hour before the panic stopped trying to claw its way out of his chest.

He climbed up the stairs exhausted and disheartened. Not only does Sherlock, not want John as a romantic partner; apparently he doesn't even want John as a friend or colleague.

John showered and went to clinic; he brought a large espresso to work. Hopefully the caffeine would get him through his afternoon shift. The nurses were all unusually kind and helpful. The patients were supportive. Christ, do they all know? Do I look that bad?

John bought another espresso and another takeaway on his way home. He put the untouched food in the refrigerator. He sat in his chair for hours, drinking the espresso, and listening to depressing break up music.

That night, for his own good, John forced himself to lie in his own bed. The dark crowded around him as he lay awake remembering Sherlock. He smiled when he remembered the sheet-clad Sherlock at Buckingham Palace and Sherlock wearing the deerstalker hat. He nearly cried when he remembered Sherlock's so-called suicide. He couldn't make up his mind about the their reunion two years after the Fall. It was funny remembering Sherlock's shock when John threw his tea in his face. The git had deserved it after he magically appeared from his bedroom with no warning for the doctor. But the pain of the abandonment and grieving had never really left John, so it was sad too. And then there was the hug, long and clinging and not really all that platonic. John must have imagined that hug too.

John eventually gave up sleep as a lost cause and wandered the dark, quiet flat for a couple of hours, before he went jogging again in the rain and dark.

John watched the sunrise from the top of St. Bart's. The roof had become a refuge for John during Sherlock's long absence. John sat there now trying to deal with the painful reality of the long dreaded break-up.

John choked back a contemptuous laugh. What break-up? John was in a one-sided relationship with a sociopath that had grown bored with John just four months after his return. What the hell had John expected? Sherlock warned him from the beginning that he was married to his work. Sherlock was just being Sherlock, and John had only himself to blame if his heart was broken.

Then again, on the night he had returned to 221B,Sherlock had seemed so sincere, so earnest. He had promised John that he needed John's friendship. Sherlock had promised that he would never leave John again. Christ, Sherlock had said that he couldn't live without John. John had finally been convinced that he was the exception, that he was really Sherlock's best friend.

That was enough for John. He certainly wasn't going to force his attentions on the detective and ruin the most important relationship in his life. Still there was that little, tiny hope that someday, John would be even more than a best friend to the World's Only Consulting Detective. Had all of that friendship talk been an act, just Sherlock manipulating him? Maybe that was it; maybe John wasn't so special to Sherlock. Maybe John was convenient, like an ATM for buying milk and keeping Andersons out of Sherlock's hair. John didn't know what to think anymore.

He rubbed his tired eyes. The breeze was making his eyes water; thank God he was too tough for tears.

John finally gave up on the view; the sunrise was drowned by the weeping mist. The cloying clouds covered any hope of sunlight. They smothered all hope entirely.

* * *

John sat with his laptop the whole afternoon; he was disappointed to find that he could not afford any suitable flats in London. He would have to find a new job and a new flat somewhere else. The only available jobs were dull locum /clinic jobs like he had now. They wouldn't pay the rent even in the rural districts.

On a whim, he began reading up on private defense contractors. It looked interesting, and the more he read, the more interested John got. Private defense contractors, aka mercenaries, must lead exciting lives, and the jobs paid well, very well indeed. It was perfect. John could go back to the war that he supposedly missed and get money to do so. He sat up most of the night converting his CV into a résumé. Then he sent out emails and applications. He only got out of the chair to make more coffee.

He finally decided to go to bed after 0400 hours. He went into Sherlock's room and curled up under the covers. It smelled like Sherlock even if the detective seldom slept there. Sherlock need never know that John spent the night in his bed.

John woke before 0800 hours that morning, and he called the clinic to quit his job. John checked his email while he downed his coffee. He had one actual job offer, based solely on his résumé, and two requests for interviews, one each in New York City and Washington DC. There was a mysterious inquiry that seemed to have come from the American CIA even though John had not sent any applications to them.

John checked airfares to the United States. Afterwards, he ran out of the flat to jog for 50 minutes. Then he went to the bookstore to get a copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine and a large espresso.

When John arrived back at 221B Baker Street, he ran up his stairs still chuffed. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, "John, I don't understand. He says he's looking for drugs."

John gave Mrs. Hudson's arm a reassuring squeeze. Then he confronted Detective Inspector Lestrade whose team was tearing the flat apart. "Greg, a drug's bust? Really? Sherlock's not even here; besides he's been clean…"

"I'm checking the flat because of you John," John stared at Lestrade nonplussed. "John you've been behaving very strangely. You quit your job, you've been out wandering all over London at all hours of the night, you aren't eating and you look a wreck. Look at you, your hands are shaking," said Lestrade.

"Oh, I get it. Mycroft sent you. He's mad because I took up jogging and did not get special permission from him first. Look I'm out jogging, not buying drugs; it's supposed to be good for you. In fact, I just finished a little jog and I had a coffee; coffee's not illegal is it?"

John tapped his foot with excess energy, "Look, I'm more than happy submit to any bloody drug tests you'd like, and you just go right ahead and search the flat all you want. Does anyone want some coffee?" asked John tilting his head to the side. He put the kettle on to boil and put two large spoonfuls of instant coffee into his own mug.

"John, will you please tell me what's going on? Mrs. Hudson called me and said that you haven't eaten for days. You haven't returned my calls or Dr. Sawyer's calls or calls from Mycroft Holmes. I found that note on the fridge; where exactly is Sherlock?" Lestrade held The Note in his hand.

John snatched The Note away angrily. "That is my note, left for me. And now you know exactly as much as I do. Yes, he left another note. Sherlock has scarpered off again. End of story. As far as returning phone calls, I wasn't in the mood, and it isn't against the law." John carefully folded The Note and slipped it into his wallet for safe keeping. He chewed his lip while he waited for the kettle to boil. His fingers drummed on the counter.

John watched as a new PC dragged out another experiment. "Please put that mold back into the cupboard, it's some kind of experiment. No! Anderson, no! Don't touch that can, it's full of…"

Sensing victory, the weasel tore open the can. Flies and maggots and half eaten flesh poured out onto Anderson. "Argh!" shrieked Anderson. "Argh, get them off, get them off!"

"I told you not to touch the can. Sherlock will be pissed off when he gets back. You'd better pick them all up and put them back in the can," said John calmly to the Forensics tech who was dancing around the kitchen. "Lestrade, he's stepping on the maggots. Really it's too bad."

"They've gotten into my clothes, they're in my clothes!" shrieked Anderson.

John poured hot water into his mug and eyed the mess. "Well that's one experiment ruined. Not really sure what the point of it was , but still. I wonder what that fleshy thing was?"

"Flesh! They're eating into _my_ flesh, get them off," screamed Anderson who crashed into the table knocking test tubes onto the floor,

John pursed his lips, "Another one bites the dust. Sherlock will be really, really pissed. I'm not taking the blame for this Greg,"

Anderson was hysterical and trying to rip off his blue suit. This was not going as planned; Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You really should do something about Anderson; he's going to hurt himself," said John He sipped his strong black coffee. "Oi, put that box in the freezer if you're done with it; we really don't want that thing defrosting. It could be much worse than the maggots."

"John whatever's going on, I'm not going to watch you slide down into depression again. I'll make you a deal. I'll leave if you promise to meet me at the pub in two hours," said Lestrade. John nodded. "PC Jones, get Anderson out of here. The rest of you, clean up this mess. John, two hours."

* * *

"Sorry I'm late Greg but I had a strange visitor. Some guy claimed to be from MI6, and he was asking a bunch of questions." John slid into his seat and sipped the pint of beer that Lestrade had already ordered.

"Oh God, is it something to do with Sherlock?" asked Lestrade.

"No, no the bloke has this stupid idea that I'm going to go work for the CIA or something. I finally promised not to join the CIA unless I contacted the British Government first," John sipped his beer.

"CIA?" asked Lestrade flatly. "Is that a real possibility?"

"No, no, no. I mean they might be interested in me but I'm not interested in working for another government. See they called twice today and wanted me to stop in at the American Embassy for a chat," John smiled. "I turned them down, so problem solved. Maybe I could order some coffee?"

The waiter brought over two plates with hamburgers and chips. "I ordered dinner for both of us John. You need to eat."

John eyed the food warily and picked at his chips. He looked longingly at a woman drinking some nice hot java. Lestrade ate in silence for a few minutes. "Take a bite of the sandwich John; I promised Mrs. Hudson that you would eat tonight. We know that you haven't eat since he left."

John glared and took a bite of the hamburger. It tasted like ashes. "_He left,"_ thought John; Greg had said it out loud. "_He left"._ John forced down a second bite and put the burger down. So it's official Sherlock left. He left me again.

"John you are acting just like you did before. I know it; your friends know it, and I think you know it. You can't shut down again because of Sherlock. You can't quit work and start sulking around that flat like you did when we thought he died," said Lestrade.

"Well I suppose I can if I want to," said John stubbornly. "But I'm not. I can see that Sherlock and I aren't working out as flat mates. I thought we were, but I was mistaken. So I'm looking for work, something a bit more exciting than tending children with runny noses and old men with gout. I don't think the CIA is really it though, do you?"

"Um no, I do not think you should join the CIA or the French Foreign Legion...What's that look for? Are you trying to join the French Foreign Legion? Is there still a French Foreign Legion? Look John, if you two had a little spat, maybe you should just give it some time to blow over before you make any major decisions. You and Sherlock have a very close relationship…'

"No, that's the problem Greg. There is no relationship. You and everyone else imagine that there is one; I started to imagine that there is one. Well, guess what; there obviously isn't," snapped John. "Hell, I'm hard pressed to even define us as friends at this point."

"John, trust me, you're too tired and too upset to be making rational decisions. You're running on empty John, no food and no sleep and a hell of a lot of caffeine."said Lestrade slapping the table for emphasis.

"You were really exhausted after that case you and Sherlock just finished." Lestrade was on a roll. "I think you actually got in less sleep last week than he did since you were the undercover fence. You were frantic, when that gang kidnapped Sherlock. Then you almost died in that fire."

John glared sullenly and played with his food.

"I might add that Sherlock was beside himself when he brought you out of the burning building. He was almost hysterical until you started coughing and waking up. Just saying."

John's lips tightened further, and he slowly crushed some chips.

"Look mate, just don't rush into anything when you're worried and tired and over wrought. Just let the dust settle. Don't do anything drastic for a couple of days. Maybe tomorrow we can get together again?"asked Lestrade.

John nodded, but superstitiously crossed his fingers. He planned to be on his way to America tomorrow.

* * *

John walked into his dark flat. He half-expected to see the lanky detective stretched out on the couch or squatting in his chair. However the flat was empty. John put the leftover burger and chips in the fridge. At least Lestrade's team had cleaned up most of the afternoon's mess.

The flat echoed with the silence. John put on some of Sherlock's music, Beethoven's Fifth, full volume. Bah, bah, bah, bahm the music blared-yeah death knocking at the door, thought John. He made some more coffee, three teaspoons of instant in the mug.

The music was almost loud enough to drown out his thoughts.

John checked his phone, no messages. He walked into Sherlock's bedroom, no detective. The music was loud even in here. Good thing Mrs. Hudson was out tonight.

John checked the closet as if he thought that the World's Only Consulting Detective might be crouching behind the shirts and suits.

The closet smelled like Sherlock, like his soap and chemicals. John breathed in deeply. He gently caressed the shirts, one by one. He turned to switch on a light and admired the sleek tailored suits. Sherlock was so bloody elegant in them. Him with his long neck and stupid cheekbones, why do I want that stupid, skinny, abnormally tall git anyway?

Then John was irresistibly drawn back to the purple shirt. It was one of Sherlock's favorite shirts. It was certainly John's favorite shirt. It was The Sexy Purple Shirt. John stroked The Sexy Purple Shirt, and wondered when he started to think in capital letters.

John pulled the shirt reverently off its hanger. He rubbed his face against it; he imagined that Sherlock was wearing it. John slowly unbuttoned his own shirt. Moving faster he pulled off his own striped shirt and vest. Then he pulled the prized shirt on. It slipped like silk down his arms and across his chest. The Shirt was way too long; the sleeves covered up his hands. It was a bit too tight across the shoulders. He left it unbuttoned. When he moved, The Shirt caressed John like Sherlock would, should.

John sighed in defeat. Sherlock Holmes certainly would not ever caress John Watson. It was time for John to let the dream die. Sherlock did not want him even as a friend anymore. Dr. John H. Watson RAMC was not going to be the pathetic hanger-oner anymore.

The doctor marched up to his room to pack his duffel full of shirts and tees and socks and pants. He packed a pair of jeans and two old army fatigues. He squeezed in some toiletries and his notebook. There would only be room for one jumper and his laptop. Fine, Mercs probably don't wear jumpers anyway.

John could live out of this duffel bag indefinitely; it would be just like in the army, which was the whole point really.

If John couldn't have Sherlock, then he needed the army. The British Army didn't want him. He had tried to rejoin after The Fall, but they refused to let him rejoin. So John would join a private army. It wasn't the same but close enough.

Still wearing The Sexy Purple Shirt, John looked into the mirror. He was pale, the circles under his eyes looked bruised. His face needed shaving and his hair stuck up like a porcupine. He was too short and too thin; his chest hair was too pale. But the shirt, the purple shirt gleamed seductively. The torn, faded jeans he wore did not complement the ensemble, so he tore them off.

Yes, John would spend his final night at 221B Baker Street in The Sexy Purple Shirt and his black pants. Sherlock need never know. Exultantly, John marched down to the sitting room. The unbuttoned purple shirt flapped around him; it kissed his skin raising goose-flesh on his arms and legs.

He checked his laptop; his tickets would be waiting at Heathrow. This time tomorrow he'd be over the Atlantic Ocean on his way to the USA for a series of job interview, two more since yesterday. Ha, Ha John Watson, Soldier of Fortune, mercenary, hired gun. John would find excitement on his own terms, and sod everyone else.

John finished his seventh or eighth coffee. His hands had a very fine tremor, his mind was buzzing on overdrive. Stupid drugs bust, John chuckled darkly. Who needs drugs, I have all the caffeine I need.

John's heart raced; maybe he had more than eight coffees today. Maybe that was enough caffeine for now; John poured himself some whisky.

John took out his Browning L9A1. He'd be bringing that with him. Thanks to Mycroft he had permits to carry the gun and even to travel with it. It was one of the only benefits of his association with the British Government.

John ran his fingers over the satiny smooth metal of the handgun. His Browning was always ready when John needed it. _It_ never promised that it would never leave again and then run off leaving a stupid two-line note. The handgun reminded him of better times, times in the Army with his friends, times with Sherlock on cases. John smiled.

John meticulously cleaned the gun as he sipped his whisky. The smell of the gun oil and the feel of the cold steel soothed the soldier in John. Beethoven thundered through the empty flat. John carefully reassembled the gun and loaded the magazine. Finally the gun was ready to be packed away.

John did not feeling like changing the disc so Beethoven's Fifth started over. Bah, Bah, Bah, Baahh! The orchestral music reverberated in his chest the way Sherlock's voice used to. Sod that, thought the doctor angrily. Forget him.

He aimed his Browning at the Smiley face. "Curse you Smiley Face. Death is too good for you," John said like a hardened gun for hire.

Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening; he could shoot the evil Smiley Face. It deserved death, and no one need ever know. He could shoot one of the old bullet holes so there wouldn't even be a new hole. Sherlock would never suspect that John had shot the Smiley Face many,many times, always aiming for a bullet hole and almost always finding his target.

John smirked. He could do it right now too; the tremors disappeared when he held his gun. Must be psychosomatic. Damn this psychosomatic crap.

The evil Smiley Face leered at him. It taunted him. He sighted down the barrel. He crouched down, taking cover from imaginary fire behind his chair. He pretended to return fire.

John jumped up aiming the gun again. He was a soldier again, but now he was a soldier of fortune, a free agent. He'd be an agent for good of course, but with a bad reputation. John scrambled behind Sherlock's chair. "That was close, Smiley Face, but not good enough."

John leapt back up and pivoted. He braced his legs, and took the Browning in both hands. The tremors were gone, history. As he concentrated, his face turned to stone; with hard blue eyes and parted lips, John took aim. John squeezed the trigger. Bam! Smiley Face had met its match.

**TBC**

**A/N** Reviews welcomed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer **I hereby disclaim any rights to Sherlock Holmes, those rights belong to someone else; we all know who.

**A/N** Is disclaim even a word? Just wondering.

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock waded though piles of bills and receipts, trying to track down the missing kidnapper. The fool had no sense of organization and had left his flat in disarray. Somewhere in this mess, there had to be a clue as to his whereabouts.

John Watson would have been so useful here. John may not have Sherlock's deductive skills, but he was thorough and meticulous. John could track down clues and process evidence better than anyone, well, anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stopped and ruffled up his hair. Once again he regretted the need to leave his blogger behind, but John was worn down, exhausted; he needed to rest. The detective had observed John shuffling about pale and bleary-eyed after the last case. Even Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson raised questions about John's health. Sherlock would not risk John's health on this farce of case.

It wasn't even a real kidnapping, but a dognapping. However, Mummy had insisted. Her sister's dog was missing, and the World's Only Consulting Detective was required. Only Mummy could have forced Sherlock onto this level 2 case. No one else mattered enough, well, no one other than John Watson.

Sherlock reached for his phone and sighed when he realized it was gone. His phone had been annihilated when it was knocked out of his hands whilst he was attempting to text John. The phone was now a crumpled, electrified lump; its final resting place was a train track.

Sherlock force himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. The obvious dognapping suspect was a part-time student who walked and groomed dogs for the rich and lazy. The dog-walker had access to the missing canine and needed money, judging from the number of unpaid and late bills in the pile. The only mystery was why the Paris police hadn't arrested him yet.

Sherlock finished sorting through the paperwork. There were several receipts from a local café. He would continue the investigation at the café then.

Sherlock turned to call for John and remembered that John was in London. John's absence was like a phantom limb. Sherlock sincerely hoped John would enjoy his rest and relaxation. Hopefully, John would also appreciate Sherlock's sacrifice for his blogger's sake. The detective felt vaguely self-righteous as he left the disheveled flat.

* * *

Case leads were almost nonexistent until three days later, when the missing student returned to Paris. Now, thanks to the tip from a waiter at the café, the game was on. Sherlock chased the young, dark-haired dognapper through the back streets of Paris. Sherlock did not know Paris as well as London of course, but he knew it better than most Parisians.

John would have loved this, thought Sherlock suddenly. John popped into his head with alarming regularity.

Sherlock dodged a bus, and rounded the corner. Another coffee shop; John would have loved that coffee shop with the outdoor tables. He would have loved those croissants. Distracted again! Sherlock angrily tried to block all thoughts of John Watson from his mind.

Sherlock spotted the dognapper in his cliché stripped shirt. Sherlock restarted the chase. Damn, if John was here they could split up and corner the stupid dognapper. Sherlock threw himself over the hood of a car and cut through a trash-strewn alley, narrowly avoiding a sleek cat and her kittens. First this stupid dog, now the stupid cat, the animals of Paris were conspiring to make life difficult for Sherlock.

The panting detective turned the corner with a flourish of his signature coat, and the dognapper crashed into his arms. Sherlock roughly dragged the man back into the ally and shoved him up against the wall. In flawless French Sherlock threatened and interrogated the hapless criminal.

The cowardly dognapper quickly broke down, and led the World's Only Consulting Detective to the basement flat where Gigi, the tiny white, teacup poodle, was hidden.

Sherlock phoned the Paris authorities. He reached for the hideous creature and was rewarded with a vicious attack. He let the dognapper place the dog into a cage. Of course if John were here, he could have dealt with all matters canine. John would have gentled that beast and had her eating out of his hand in no time.

Then again, perhaps it was actually better that John was not here. What if he decided that he wanted a dog too? Sherlock wouldn't put it past John to want a pet, something else that would take John's attention away from Sherlock. The detective narrowed his eyes and glared at the dog for the mere possibility of distracting John. Fortunately for the dog, the police arrived.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the satin covered chair in his Aunt's penthouse apartment. The stuffy room reeked of potpourri and lilies. Mummy served tea and coffee, while her sister cooed endearments to Gigi. Gigi eagerly licked her mistress, stopping only long enough to growl at the detective who had saved her.

Mummy, wearing a rose-colored silk blouse and black skirt, handed Sherlock tea and some pastry. Sherlock looked around for John; who of course wasn't there.

Angry and lonely, Sherlock bit the pastry savagely; flakey pastry went flying. "Non, mon cheri" said Mummy in French. "There is no need to be rude; I raised you to be a perfect gentleman. And I am so grateful that you found Auntie's Gigi. Such a darling little dog, no?" Her light blue eyes sparkled with good humor. She knew her youngest son was not fond of pets, especially a bad-tempered little brat like Gigi. Sherlock's lip twitched as he almost smiled at Mummy's little joke.

Although the crime and distress had been most unfortunate, Mummy was ecstatic to finally see her son again. "So mon cheri, you must tell me everything that you have been doing. It was too bad of you to stay missing for so long. My heart was breaking those first few weeks, thank God Mycroft finally told me the truth. I understand that some of your friends were quite upset too," she added slyly. "They did not know the truth for years. It was a shame that they suffered for so long, no?"

Sherlock stiffened, "Once again, Mycroft is sticking his nose in where it isn't wanted. If you mean John, and obviously you do, then yes, he was upset, but he's gotten over it. He and I are back on good terms. He even helps me on cases."

"Have you and Jean settled down yet then?" asked Mummy patting her thick, grey chignon.

"Mummy, you are misinformed by my bumbling, obese brother. John is my best friend. He is straight. Someday he will find a petite, pink blonde. He will settle down with her to raise short, pink, blond children," said Sherlock coldly. Mummy heard the despair in his voice.

"My dear boy, have you considered giving Jean a choice? Maybe he doesn't want a little, pink blonde?" asked Mummy, refilling his teacup.

"Mummy, I will deal with John as I see fit. If you must know, John would panic and run if he thought that I was attracted to him. I am more than grateful for his loyalty and friendship. It is enough; it has to be enough. I will not lose him again, and certainly not because I have made some ill-advised attempt to seduce him," Sherlock glared at Mummy." And I will thank you and Mycroft to keep out of my personal affairs," finished the detective, He sat upright , like an outraged cat, and held the China teacup stiffly in front of him.

"Yes of course, mon cheri, I will say no more on the matter, for now. Of course, you will stay the night and have dinner with your Mummy and Auntie.

"Yes, Mummy, but I leave first thing in the morning," agreed the sulky detective. "I have important experiments to complete at Baker Street, and besides, John will probably be bored without me."

* * *

After several disagreeable hours on the train and fighting for a taxi in the pouring rain, Sherlock was relieved to return to 221B Baker Street. Then he saw the police car. Ah, Lestrade probably has a case for Sherlock and John, excellent!

The detective stormed up the stairs excited, but slowed to stride into the flat, cold and aloof as always. There was no need to show Lestrade his excitement, thought Sherlock.

Lestrade sat at the table his head in his hands. Mrs. Hudson was wringing her hands and trying to make tea at the same time. Sherlock also observed in passing that the experiment on the kitchen table was ruined and several pieces of equipment were missing. And where, precisely, was John? Sherlock felt the first cold frisson of fear run down his spine.

"Where is he?" asked Sherlock slowly enunciating each syllable.

"New York City?" suggested Lestrade.

"Explain," snapped Sherlock.

"I can't explain because I don't know Sherlock. He was acting strange and then I tried to find out why and he stopped eating and he said the CIA was recruiting him…"

"The what!? The CIA? That's ridiculous! Why New York?" demanded Sherlock. He loomed over Lestrade, pinning him with his icy blue eyes.

"Look, I said I don't know! I only know about New York City, because I called in some favors. I found his name on the passenger manifest for a flight to New York. It left early last evening: he only had one piece of luggage."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, as if he were just waking up from a nightmare. But this is still a nightmare; I'm lost without my blogger. It just doesn't make sense, thought the detective.

"No, No, No! This doesn't make sense," the detective said, while he ran his fingers through his hair making the long dark curls stand up in disarray. "Is he on vacation? Did he leave a note? Did you try his phone? Did you contact his work, his sister, his friends…"

"I've called everyone I can think of. Dr. Sawyer, Mike Stamford, Bill Murray, his sister Harry, even Molly, no one knows anything. They didn't even know he was gone." said Lestrade.

"Gone," Sherlock mouthed the word silently. John is gone. It hurt; it physically hurt. Sherlock suddenly wanted to hide in his mind palace. Gone. John is gone. Not acceptable, there is a mistake. There has to be some mistake.

Breathing rapidly, Sherlock blurted out, "There has to be some mistake, some reason. What did he say to you Mrs. Hudson? He wouldn't leave you, even for a few days without saying goodbye." Sherlock spat the words like gunfire now.

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands.

"Mrs. Hudson!" yelled Sherlock.

"Oh, Sherlock!…No, he never said anything about leaving to me. The day after you left, John got all funny again, like when you…Oh dear. Sherlock, it was like when you were dead," her fingers pressed to her lips. "I tried to bring him food, and he thanked me, and then he put it all in the fridge without touching it, right next to his uneaten take-aways and your mold experiments and those, whatever they are."

"Sherlock I tried calling you for the last two days. Why didn't you answer" demanded Gregory Lestrade. "Why didn't you answer John's text? If he's so bloody important, then why didn't you just call to see how he was doing?"

"Because my phone was obliterated. Now when did you last talk to John?" asked the detective.

"I came over here after Dr. Sawyer called me to ask why John quit his job…"

"Quit his job? Just like that? John quit his job at the clinic? What did you do to him?" shouted the detective as he pounded the wall with his fist.

"It's no good shouting at me Sherlock Holmes! I didn't do anything; you're the one who disappeared leaving a stupid note. I saw John and that lame excuse for a note two days ago when I came over and did a drug sweep."

"For what? I'm clean; do you honestly think John would allow drugs in this flat? Do you not use what little grey matter you were born with?" said Sherlock contemptuously.

"The drug's bust wasn't for you. I was checking out Watson! He wasn't eating. He wasn't sleeping. He was wandering the worst parts of London in the middle of the night. His hands were shaking-both hands, so it's not just the stress tremor. Christ, at first I thought he was high on something. Then as we talked, he seemed more, well, just manic or stressed but not high. Then Anderson freaked out when the maggots got in his shirt, and I called the whole thing off."

Sherlock ran to the cupboard. His most important experiment on the rate of decay of a human foot in the presence of maggots was missing. His head whipped around, "I expect reimbursement for my experiment and the missing test tubes, but we will defer that discussion until later."

"Tell me exactly what John said about the CIA. Were they trying to kidnap him? Why would they kidnap him? Hurry, hurry. The next flight for New York City leaves in two and a half hours," Sherlock was running around, searching for clues and tossing everything that got in his way. "Well speak up Lestrade!"

"Sherlock, I can't think with you rushing about and shouting!" complained the Detective Inspector who ruffed up his own hair in his agitation. "Watch it! You nearly hit me with that book. Anyway, all John said, was that someone from MI6 was asking him not to join the CIA and that the CIA had sent him some e-mail and John wanted a job that was more exiting than working in that clinic."

"Why? Why would the CIA e-mail John? What does MI6 have to do with it. Never mind, you clearly don't know. I know who does," Sherlock's voice dropped menacingly, "Give me your phone Lestrade; I have to call Mycroft and I need to see what John packed," the tall detective ran out of the sitting room and up to John's bedroom. "He's definitely taken his gun, phone and laptop. Oh God, he took both of his old army fatigues. That is not good. And he packed tee shirts not his button down shirts ...and only one jumper," Sherlock kept shouting down information to the two waiting in the sitting room.

"Thank you for the tea Mrs. Hudson," said Lestrade who didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the impossible situation.

Mrs. Hudson nodded numbly.

Suddenly Sherlock whirled though to his bedroom, shouting into Lestrade's phone, "I don't care if he's in the shower with the Queen of Sheba. I need to talk to Mycroft Holmes now!" There was the sound of falling objects; probably books thought Lestrade.

"Mrs. Hudson!" bellowed the detective from his bedroom.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson straightened up in an imitation of John. "Stop shouting Sherlock dear. We are here to help, but you needn't be rude."

"Not now Mrs. Hudson. Where's all the laundry?" Sherlock gently but firmly held the older woman by her arms and stared intently at her, evidently trying to increase her brainpower. "Mrs. Hudson, I am missing some clothes. Do you have any of my shirts or dressing gowns? Are any of my clothes at the cleaners?"

"No, of course I don't have any of your laundry. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper" answered the motherly woman, "John does most of it here on the weekend. I don't think any is at the laundry because they delivered some the other day, and you haven't been here. Why…"

"Yes! Oh yes!" Sherlock clapped his hands together in apparent glee. "Because my favorite shirt and dressing gown are missing! Brilliant!" Sherlock walked onto and over the coffee table, grabbing some papers off the desk and then he returned waving the papers under Lestrade's nose. Then he yelled into the phone again. "No I do not wish to talk to you, I wish to talk to Mycroft Holmes. Do not make me repeat myself again."

"I'm sure he'll explain eventually," said Lestrade to the patient landlady "Of course, I probably won't understand his explanation." He pinched the bridge of his nose; it seemed he often got headaches when he was visiting 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock raced in to the sitting room, dumped the clothes from his small suitcase onto the couch and ran back into his room. "Lestrade, call me a taxi," he bellowed again. There was the sound of a drawer crashing to the floor. "Please."

Minutes later the World's Only Consulting Detective soared into the room. "Despite my best intentions, John is under the mistaken impression that I do not wish or require his presence. He has consumed massive amounts of coffee; as proof, the canister in the kitchen is empty and the kitchen trash bin is full of empty Starbuck's cups. In his caffeine-overdosed confusion, John has apparently conceived an idiotic plan to become a mercenary." Sherlock threw John's copy of the Soldier of Fortune magazine in front of Lestrade. "Do you ever open your eyes? Do you ever really_ observe_, Lestrade? The evidence is all around us! What goes on in you tiny little mind anyway! Don't answer! It's not important. Only John matters!"

"These papers confirm some appointments with private defense contractors in New York, Washington DC and Newark to name a few." Sherlock waved the printouts under the Detective Inspectors nose again, "The CIA has somehow discovered his interest in becoming a mercenary. Obviously, they somehow know his skill-set. The CIA will not stop until they recruit him for some undoubtably dangerous and ill-advised scheme. I, however, intend to put a stop to it. My shirt and dressing gown are missing, proving that I have been an idiot. I missed the obvious for so long, and for that, I owe John an apology. And he_ can't_ use his phone because he left the charger_ here_." The detective brandished the phone charger, then shoved in down into his coat pocket.

The World's Only Consulting Detective whirled around and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. "I will call you in no more than twenty-four hours for an update. I am going to New York City to rescue my blogger, return his charger and find my favorite clothes ." Sherlock, coat and scarf flapping, flew out of the room with his tiny suitcase in hand. The front door slammed.

"Well, that went well, don't you think Mrs. H.?" asked an exhausted Detective Inspector.

"As well as can be expected with those two," she sighed and sipped her tea.

"Did he just steal my phone again?"asked Lestrade

Mrs. Hudson nodded, then she held up the tea-pot, "More tea?"

**TBC**

**A/N** Please let me know what you think. (Come on, don't make me beg.) ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** Warnings for mild violence and swearing.

**Disclaimer** Regretfully, I do not own any rights to Sherlock Holmes. These rights belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Messrs Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.

**Chapter 3**

John Watson could hardly hear the phone ring over the noise in the airport. He stood at a public phone while passengers thronged baggage claim at JFK International Airport. The overhead speaker kept repeating very loud, unintelligible announcements. Finally Mrs. Hudson answered her phone.

"Yes, it's me. Hullo, Mrs. H." _ "Yes, yes I'm fine." _ "What? What? No, no I haven't joined the CIA." _ "Stop, please. No." _ "No." _ "Damn the CIA! Sorry, I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It's just everyone keeps on about the CIA." _ "Look, Mrs. H., I just want to know if you've possibly heard from Sherlock? _ "Oh, yes? That's good; I mean, he's not injured or dead or anything then? Actually that came out wrong." _ "No, I said it came out wrong." _ "Good, that's good." _ "No. I'm sure you're exaggerating." _ "No, I do not know where his bloody purple shirt is. Oh, God. I'm sorry again Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what's wrong with me."_ "Mrs. H, if that's true then there is no hope for me." _ "No, I think you're imaging things; we are talking about Sherlock Holmes. And what did you mean, how did I know it was the purple one?" _ "Um, well I deduced it."_ "Yes. Well I can deduce things too."_ " Look, I have to go; these weird guys are looking at me funny."_ "No, seriously, they're coming over here. Look this is America; they could be with the mob or some drug cartel. I'll call from Washington. Good bye, Mrs. H."

John hurried out of the terminal to get a taxi into Manhattan. A dark sedan with tinted windows pulled up and a tall, black man in a black suit stepped out.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson," said the tall menacing American. He wore a Bluetooth, and his eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

"No, I don't think so," said the irritable, jet-lagged, former army doctor. His jeans were stained from a fellow passenger's cola, and his sports coat was wrinkled from the long flight. John's forehead was just as wrinkled as his jacket with anger and dismay. "Look, whoever you are, my six-hour flight just took twelve and a half hours because of a storm. That doesn't take into account the unscheduled layover in Newfoundland. I'm not getting into that car, so sod off."

John backed up and crashed into another tall Man-in-Black, this one was tanned and blond; he was one of the weird guys who had stared at John in the terminal. This Man-in-Black lifted his jacket just enough to show John his handgun. "I'm sure you see your position, Doctor. Now get into the car."

"Christ! I told you, no!" snapped the doctor. "I don't just hop into black sedans because people tell me to, at least, not anymore."

The big blond pushed John toward the black sedan; John punched the Man-in-Black in his gut and then his face. John shoved the blond into the arms of his compatriot and they both fell into the sedan. John took off running. He pushed rudely in front of an older couple and stole their cab.

"Go, go. go!" he urged the cabbie. John peered out the back window. The black sedan was pulling out to follow. A bit, not good that.

"You Americans like to drive fast and furious, don't you?" he asked he cabbie hopefully.

"I'm Pakistani, not American," replied the driver.

John manfully suppressed his urge to scream."Well I'm British, Watson, John Watson, 009. I'm being followed. I'm willing to pay a big tip, if you can lose them?" John suggested as he waved around some American Twenty-dollar bills around.

John almost regretted his suggestion because the cabbie did like to drive fast and furious. The taxi driver gunned the engine and changed lanes with reckless disregard for safe stopping distances and the laws of physics. The cabbie turned up a ramp and then jumped the median to gain access to a by-pass.

After awhile, John decided that if he was destined to die in this taxi, he might as well enjoy the exciting ride, until its inevitable fiery end. John whooped into the turns and gave the cabbie impractical suggestions. They both enjoyed themselves enormously.

The taxi drove at high-speed into a parking garage and then right back out again. They ran red lights and took several corners at high-speed, riding once on two wheels. The cab narrowly avoided killing an old woman pushing a pram. It was probably time to stop the getaway, besides John couldn't see any sign of the black sedan.

"OK, Stop! Please stop. You lost them; I think you lost them a while ago. How about, you stop the taxi and we'll get a pint, yeah?" suggested John. "I could really use one."

"A pint? A pint of what?" asked the confused driver.

"Sorry, how about you stop at a pub, um a bar, and we'll get a quick beer before I go to my job interview," said the exhausted doctor.

The taxi stopped in front of a very shady bar. "Right," said the doctor. He unzipped his duffel and pulled out the Browning.

The driver's eyes widened. "You really are 009?"

"Yeah, something like. OK we'll go in and get a pint." John noticed the look of incomprehension on the man's face. "Beer, we'll get a beer and then you can drive, slowly, to this address for me. Good, great." They gave each other a high-five and smiled broadly as they entered the bar.

John sailed through his two interviews despite his unshaved face, stained and rumpled clothes and beer on his breath. As a crack shot, a sniper, a medic with army experience and given his association with Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard, John was actually very desirable as a potential soldier of fortune. He received two firm job offers. John was thrilled; he was actually wanted for something, brilliant.

John left the second interview to find that his new friend, Ahsan, was still waiting outside.

"Oh, 009. I mean, Mr. Watson," said Ahsan, with a wink. "I've been watching for your tail. So far, so good. No tails, no black cars. I'll drive you to your next stop, yes?"

"That would be brilliant, Ahsan, but please call me John. How about you take me past the Empire State Building, since I've never seen it. Then I need to go to the State of New Jersey. Is it very far away?"

"No, no it's right over the river. I can get you there very, very fast," said the eager driver.

"Good, but let's take it slow, very, very slow. And can you find a city called Newark in the State of New Jersey?" asked John.

"No problem, dude. Very fast to Newark. I have many relatives there. I know a nice diner for you too.. No problem," replied Ahsan.

The cabbie drove John past the Empire State Building. Then they departed for what John called the mainland.

The drive was indeed fast but not too terrifying, except while changing lanes at speed on the double decked George Washington Bridge. Once in the State of New Jersey, John relaxed enough to write in his notebook about the trip so far. He was eventually going to have an interesting blog that wouldn't even mention a certain detective once.

See, I can get over him. I just need some space, thought John, while the taxi shot through a tollbooth and cut off a huge pink Cadillac. Soon, I'll be able to stop pining over him like an idiot, and I can go back to London. Then we'll just be good friends again.

In the City of Newark in the State of New Jersey, John had a chance to meet several of Ahsan's relatives. John found his appetite had returned for the first time in a week. He enjoyed naan and kebabs at a diner owned by Ahsan's uncle. He enjoyed the company of Ahsan's cousins but privately wished his flat mate were there too. After dinner, John went to the hotel run by Ahsan's wife's grandfather. The following morning John had another successful job interview with a private defense contractor, then Ahsan and several of his relatives escorted John to the Amtrak Station for his trip to Washington DC.

John sat back to relax in his seat, the train was definitely safer than driving. At the very least, there were no sudden lane changes. Still, John thought he might miss Ahsan and his cousins. He put the list of their phone numbers and e-mail addresses in his notebook.

Luckily, John found that he did not really miss his former flat mate so very much. He did not miss Sherlock's piercing blue eyes or his dark brown curls. He certainly didn't miss the sulks and tantrums even though they were adorable sometimes. No, not adorable, John did not even _think_ the word adorable. John also did not miss their little jokes and Sherlock's quirky sense of humor. That would be silly. John was grateful that he was getting over his pathetic infatuation with Sherlock Holmes so quickly.

John searched his duffel to find the paperback novel he was trying to read. He shoved his useless phone deep down into the bag and checked to make sure his Sexy Purple Shirt was safe. Yeah, good thing he wasn't thinking about that silly, overly tall detective who had such outré cheekbones. Then John was really puzzled. When did he start using words like outré?

The Amtrak train was still in the State of New Jersey when the three Men-in-Black, wearing new clothes entered John's carriage. Apparently, they were attempting to blend in. They wore pink, yellow and lavender polo's and khaki pants. The tall, tanned blond sported a swollen nose, and a red and purple bruises gleamed from beneath his sunglasses. As a group, they approached John threateningly. The black man, looking taller than ever, cracked his knuckles and grinned.

"Oh God, it's a hijacking," said John out loud.

It suddenly seemed that half of the passengers had drawn guns and were pointing them at the Men-in-Polo-Shirts. John silently thanked God for the well-armed American citizenry. Then, he immediately grabbed his duffel and headed for the rear of the car. The Men-in Polo-Shirts stepped forward, but the angry passengers with guns stopped them. Without thinking, John shoved open the car door and jumped from the rapidly moving train rolling into some bushes. His shoulder screamed in protest. A sharp branch tore his jeans and cut his knee. However John was surprised to have survived his rash escape attempt with only these minor traumas. He sat for a moment, rubbing his shoulder, and watched the Amtrak train run swiftly out of sight.

It felt as if John was waking up from a week-long dream, and the stark, physically painful reality set in. John could no longer ignore the obvious fact that these Men-in-Polos had targeted John H. Watson. If he was still in London, John would have immediately blamed Mycroft, but this was the State of New Jersey in the United States of America. Could his pursuers be from the CIA? They seemed like spooks. But why? It didn't make any sense.

John dumped out his duffel. He cleaned his cut knee with one of his tee shirts and rubbed the cut with antibiotic ointment. Then John pulled his backpack out of the pile. The Sexy Purple Shirt went into the bottom of the backpack along with Sherlock's blue silk dressing gown. John quickly shoved a pair of jeans, two tees and some black pants and socks into the bag. He added a few toiletries, the laptop, the notebook and the Browning L9A1. He abandoned everything else. John had to travel light now; he needed to be prepared for instant action while he was visiting this obviously dangerous and violent country.

John put on his own American shades, purchased at Ahsan's aunt's newsstand. John began his long hike out of the wilderness of Central New Jersey.

John hiked for twenty-five minutes, his cut knee was increasingly uncomfortable and his shoulder was still protesting the John's unreasonable exit from the train. John reached a settlement, actually tree-lined suburban town called Edison. It was a pleasant late spring day. The trees were in leaf and birds sang loudly. Spring flowers were blooming around neat well-kept homes. A deceptively peaceful town, thought John grimly. It's probably simmering with criminal intent and laced with spies. John smiled warily at an apparently harmless old man.

John entered an area of strip malls and convenience stores. His first stop was to a public phone to place a phone call to Sherlock. John had to try to salvage something of their friendship. Obviously John had allowed himself to develop unwelcome emotional ties to the handsome detective, but surely John hadn't imagined Sherlock's platonic friendship? Now that John had distanced himself, perhaps he and Sherlock could continue a more casual, platonic friendship, one that the so-called sociopath would find more comfortable. It was worth a try, and anyway, Sherlock would find all this cloak and dagger stuff amusing.

Right, anything for an excuse, thought John disgusted with himself. However, John's call to Sherlock was routed into voice mail.

" Um. Hi, Sherlock. My phone died, and I can't text. I'm visiting the State of New Jersey right now, and I'm looking into some job opportunities. It's been fun here so far and surprisingly eventful. I'm being stalked by these creepy Men-in-Polo-Shirts, and they're idiots. I was in a high-speed chase in New York City. Oh, and I just jumped off a train that was flying down the track. I didn't even get hurt, much. I hope you're OK. Mrs. H said you were. OK, I mean, and I hope you like having the flat to yourself and all, but I do miss you…"BEEP." "End of Message."

Well, that was a nice friendly message and not needy or pathetic, except the "I do miss you" bit. That got a bit sentimental, and the great detective might not like that. Still, maybe it's time to clear the air anyway.

OK, you know what, John told himself, never mind. I need to concentrate on avoiding the Men-in-Hidious-Polo-Shirts; I cannot agonize over voice messages like a silly bloke in a silly romantic comedy. Besides, I still need to get to Washington D.C.

Still worried about his flat mate and the pursuers, John tried to phone Lestrade but got his voice mail too. John gave up and wandered the suburban town in search of a bus stop and a coffee shop. John desperately needed a cappuccino.

* * *

Sherlock heard his mobile phone, well actually Lestrade's phone ringing as the customs agent scanned it. Sherlock had raised suspicions when he yelled at the flight attendants every time there was a delay and when he seemed to know too much about the private life of the federal air marshal who escorted the consulting detective off the plane.

Unfortunately, this meant that Sherlock missed John's call to Lestrade; several minutes later Sherlock was finally allowed to listen to John's voicemail with massive frustration.

"Hi, Greg. Sorry I was a bit off the last couple of days. Honestly, that man drives me crazy. _You _know why. I suppose I may have had a bit too much coffee too, but that's not why I called. Look I should call back. Something weird is going on and these huge goons who wear black suits and pastel colored polo shirts are, like, stalking me. It's very, very odd. You know, I wonder about the CIA and all that? Have you seen Sherlock, is he OK? Please check on him. Please make sure he's eating etc. I know I sound like a… "Beep." "End of message."

"John, you idiot! You'll be the death of me," muttered Sherlock loudly. The US Marshall eyed Sherlock with deep suspicion. Sherlock paced the holding room imagining John's death at the hands of strange CIA agents wearing polo shirts.

Sherlock was becoming frantic. He had just imagined John strangled to death by the polo shirt gang. Finally, Sherlock's older brother successfully pulled the right strings, allowing Sherlock to depart customs.

Sherlock stormed out of the terminal to the queue of waiting taxis. He showed each of them a photo of his missing blogger. After two hours of persistent questioning, he ran into Ahsan.

The cabbie took one look at the picture and paled. "No, sorry. I don't know this man. Is he a criminal?"

Sherlock flung himself into the cab and slammed the door shut. "You do know him. You drove him yesterday from this very airport. He is not a criminal; he is my partner. He is in some danger. Someone is hunting him…"

"Oh, oh you know about the bad men chasing him. He punched the one in the nose, such a lot of blood. I saw it. Then I drove like Miami Vice and lost the tail for him. 009 bought me a beer and I took him to Newark. He was so polite to my family. He is safe. He got on the train, 11:14 am Amtrak to Washington DC. Are you a British spy too?" Ahsan asked excitedly.

Sherlock quickly processed this information. "Yes, I'm 006 and I could use a ride to the nearest Amtrak station."

Ahsan sped off. Sherlock gave in and texted Mycroft again. He would sacrifice his pride to help his missing doctor.

**Need to locate John Watson. Took Amtrak 11:14 from Newark to Wash DC, probably passing through DC Union Station around 1:45 pm today. Urgent find JW. SH**

**Why do you have Lesrade's phone? Where is your own? Will begin inquires. MH**

**Amtrak reported an incident at 11:35 am on JW's train. Three men are in custody after reports of menacing and possible hijacking attempt. One passenger, a short, unshaven, blond man is reported to have jumped off the train while it was traveling 45 mph. Authorities have found some luggage but no passenger. Incident occurred south of Iselin NJ. MH. **

"Ahsan," barked the consulting detective, "I need to go to Iselin NJ, the Metropark. Drive like Miami Vice. 009 is in trouble."

Sherlock convinced the New Jersey State Police to allow him to examine the abandoned luggage found near the train track, but only after Lestrade intervened via e-mail and fax. Sherlock confirmed that the luggage belonged to John Watson. Sherlock had to stifle his anxiety on seeing a bloody tee-shirt and smears of blood on the duffel.

Ahsan eagerly drove Sherlock to the scene of the rash disembarkation. He was relieved to find only a few traces of blood on the gravel, grass and a stick. He identified the footprints leading south as John's.

Sherlock noted that as they approached the Town of Edison, the footprints were uneven; John was clearly favoring his right leg. Is John under so much stress that his limp is back, thought Sherlock with a frown?

Having paid the cabbie very well for all his assistance, Sherlock began questioning store owners and bar keepers, looking for John.

He found an eyewitness who was willing to talk to him near dusk.

"Oh yeah, I seen 'em. The little guy that got snatched by a gang or mebee the cops, on account of which I din't get involved."

"What happened?" asked the detective trying not to panic. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he never panicked.

"He went down da street and got into a big fight," Sherlock, paled. "Yeah, two car loads of men, some in suits and some wearing pink and yellow shirts like it was Easter. The little gut gave 'em what for using a big stick an his fists. I think he KO'd two of 'em. One dem guys had blood all down his face an all over his pretty lavender shirt. He was pissed. He kicked the poor little guy when he was down. Then they threw him in one a dem black cars, an off they drove."

Sherlock tried questioning others but no one wanted to talk about a possible gang or police related action. No one had reported it, and no one saw a license plate.

John was injured and kidnapped! Sherlock could feel his control slipping. He drew slow even breaths and forced his anger and anxiety into his mind palace. He tried to study the scene. He also realized that someone was watching him. Ahsan was standing near-by, anxiously watching the World's Only Consulting Detective, aka 006.

"Well Ahsan, 009 has been taken, kidnapped," said the pale detective in a cold icy voice. He watched the cabbie from the corner of his eyes.

"Yes, yes the girl in the 7-Eleven told me. I thought you might need another ride," said Ahsan.

"I don't suppose she got licence plate numbers?" asked the detective.

"No, probably not," replied the cabbie. "I could ask? I did get the number from the car that chased us yesterday…"

Sherlock was ecstatic; he quickly sent the plate number to the British Government who reluctantly began to pull more strings from a quarter of the world away.

* * *

John woke up handcuffed in the back of a sedan. His shoulder ached a bit, his head hurt even more. He was thirsty and nauseous at the same time. He lifted his head gingerly as he opened his eyes.

"Finally waking up, Dr. Watson?" growled a hostile man in a blood stained lavender polo shirt. The man roughly shoved his elbow into John's ribs. Oh, it's the tall blond who fights poorly and wears ugly shirts, thought John groggily.

The man sported a broken nose and two black eyes. Serves him right thought the former soldier.

"Leave him be, moron. You hit him too hard and almost ruined the mission," said an older man in a dark suit.

John finally remembered the fight in the Town of Edison in the State of New Jersey. There were no well-armed citizens to rescue him that time. At least I took a few down with me, he thought smugly.

"Dr. Watson, you may not believe me but we don't want to hurt you," said the older Man-in-Black. "I've been trying

to reach you but you refused to answer my e-mails. You can call me Mr. Jones. No, it's not my real name and yes, I'm with the CIA."

**TBC**

**A/N** Story is morphing into a much longer tale. Blame it on John and Sherlock who don't want to be bored and crave excitement and danger. They would like to be re-united in the next chapter; we'll see about that. Thanks to everyone who has read this so far and especially those who have reviewed. I love to hear your comments and suggestions. Corrections and advice are very welcome too.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **Warnings for non-consensual kissing and references to adult situations and cursing. I sort of rushed this so please excuse any errors.

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes but someone else does. (See disclaimer from Chapter 3 if it's important to you.)

**Previously **_John finally remembered the fight in the Town of Edison in the State of New Jersey. There were no well-armed citizens to rescue him that time. At least I took a few down with me, he thought smugly._

"_Dr. Watson, you may not believe me but we don't want to hurt you," said the older Man-in-Black. "I've been trying to reach you but you refused to answer my e-mails. You can call me Mr. Jones. No, it's not my real name and yes, I'm with the CIA."_

**Chapter 4**

"Well, the CIA, I suppose you've mistaken me for someone else?" asked John with a sigh.

"Oh no, Dr. Watson, it's you I want. I want to recruit you. You have skills I can use and knowledge that I need," Jones smiled but his dark eyes gleamed with a strange hunger.

"Isn't this a strange and somewhat violent way to recruit new agents," said John. He ran his tongue over his stinging split lip. The coppery taste of blood increased his thirst. "Why don't you tell me what it is that you want?" said the doctor trying to reactivate his military training.

"Excellent, Dr. Watson. I knew you could be reasonable," Jones smiled again. The sun was low in the sky and the spring green trees along the edge of the highway seemed to glow as evening approached. "You Dr. Watson are the only known, living member of Sebastian Moran's team in Afghanistan. You are, therefore, the only known man who can help us track down his weapons caches. We plan to go to Afghanistan and find these caches…"

"Mr. Jones, you are making a big mistake. I worked with Moran five years ago. He was a soldier not a criminal then. I doubt my information will be helpful; surely you want his more recent associates, his criminal associates?" suggested John.

"We've already utilized the information from his recent contacts, and apparently, he did not share the location of his secret caches with them. He was increasingly paranoid and distrustful in his last years. We suspect he kept a lot of things secret from his gang. We believe that he may have used his old spec ops hideouts," Jones stared coldly at the former army doctor. "I worked with the Colonel off and on in Afghanistan. I even saw you a few times, Captain Watson, although you weren't supposed to see me. I know that Colonel Moran trusted you more than anyone else in his unit. So you will lead us…"

"Are you insane?" asked John. He received a sharp elbow in his ribs from the lavender moron. Not feeling his usual patient self, John elbowed him back. "First, how do I know you are even with the CIA? Second, why should I help you even if you are CIA? Third, call your moron off before someone gets hurt."

"I will ignore your empty threat. However, to confirm my identity and help you recognize the position you are in, you have my permission to 'phone a friend'_, _as they say on TV_"_ said Jones, smoothing the top of his bald head.

"I don't think Sherlock Holmes will be able…" began John.

"No, Doctor, I was thinking of his brother, Mycroft Holmes.

John's left hand was still cuffed to the lavender moron, but his right hand was free to punch in the phone number for Mycroft Holmes using Mr. Jones' cell phone.

It took almost twenty minutes to get through to the British Government; meanwhile, the sedan drove through the gathering dusk. The large green highway signs said that they were approaching Atlantic City.

Suddenly, John heard the silky voice of Mycroft Holmes. Ominously, he was using his fake friendly voice. "Dr. Watson, just the man I need. You'd be surprised at the attention you are receiving here in London. Even as we speak, I have the head of MI6 and the foreign secretary, here, in my office, not to mention the distinguished United States Ambassador," John's heart sank. "You are very fortunate, doctor. You are in the position to serve your Queen and Country yet again."

"You already know where I am. You've already sold me out to the CIA then," said John bitterly.

"No, you have bravely volunteered be re-commissioned. You will be detached to serve under Mr. Jones within the CIA. Your commission and official orders will be faxed to the Trump Plaza. A generous expense account, credit cards, visas and so on, will also be provided," continued the British Government. "I'm afraid that this is quite non-negotiable Dr. Watson; you'll understand presently. I'm also sure that you know better than to involve my brother. That would be quite unhealthy for you."

"And how do I know that you are really Mycroft Holmes," asked John grasping at straws.

"Dr. Watson, you once asked if my brother's antagonism toward me stemmed from my breaking his action man. When I first met you, I mentioned that bravery was by far the kindest name for stupidity," Mycroft's voice was softer, almost sad sounding. "I have witnessed your bravery repeatedly, I will not scorn it again. My brother's antagonism is, as you can see, quite justified. I am willing to make unpopular moves if it is in the best interests of Britain. Are you satisfied, Dr. Watson?"

"Satisfied that you are indeed the British Government, yes. Satisfied that any of this is legal, no," said John pursing his lips and wrinkling his brow.

"My lawyers have carefully reviewed our actions, including your reinstatement as a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but not the Medical Corps, I'm afraid. I assure you it is all quite legal. You will obey Mr. Jones as you would any superior officer. Failure to do so will result in a court-martial," Mycroft continued more harshly. "My legal team also assures me that your coöperation now, will mitigate any future legal issues based on your past service with Colonel Moran, a known criminal, even before he was discharged from the Army…"

"The army found out he was a criminal because I bloody well turned him in, and then he shot me because the army bloody well let him go," snapped Captain Watson.

"Never the less, you will follow your orders…" said Mycroft.

"I will evaluate the proposal given to me by Jones here, and I'll decide if I'm going to coöperate. If not then feel free to shoot me, or bring me to court-martial, whatever. And as far as your brother goes, I have no control over what he does, and we both know that if he thinks something interesting is afoot, he'll come uninvited. All I can say is that I will not seek him out. I am not responsible for his actions, and I advise you not to threaten me. I really don't like it."

John broke the connection in order to get the last word in.

* * *

"Mycroft, I require updated information on John Watson. Earlier, your minion said the black sedan carrying John was headed down the Atlantic City Expressway. Now they say they have no information at all. Why are you withholding information?" demanded Sherlock.

"Sherlock, it all ended badly. I'm sorry. It was a drug related kidnapping…" said Mycroft.

"What! Where is he?" asked the detective harshly. John must be safe, he must...

"His body was thrown into the ocean," lied the British Government. Mycroft continued talking but Sherlock no longer heard him.

In his shock and panic, Sherlock's mind slowed down, John? But it did not shut down completely, John? Dead? NO, NO, NO. Wait, if John had died, why didn't Mycroft call Sherlock immediately? "How do you know that John is dead, let alone thrown into the ocean; do you have the body?" No, not John, not dead. NO.

"Camera's, I can show you footage when you return…" said Mycroft.

"Camera's can be made to lie. Anyone with access to Photoshop can manipulate so-called reality. What was John wearing?" demanded Sherlock his mind re-engaging fully. John is not dead. It is a lie.

"Sherlock, I didn't pay attention…"tried Sherlock's brother.

"Lies! You always pay attention. You cannot tell me what he was wearing because there were no camera images in the first place," the detective paused as pieces began to fall into place

"You are lying. You are willing to lie to me about John Watson's death when you know how much he means... You _want _me to abandon him to the kidnappers. You would only do this if you thought he betrayed me, which is impossible, or if you thought my life was in danger, which it is not, because you haven't tried to surround me with your idiotic agents. The only other motive that you care about is National Security. You are attempting to abandon my John to the kidnappers, most likely, the CIA, for some perceived national security threat. You have 30 seconds to tell me where he is, or I will find John on my own," stated the now enraged detective.

Sherlock's veins stood out ready to burst with fury and anger. His teeth were clenched, yet his eyes were chips of glacial ice.

"So be it, Good bye Mycroft," Sherlock turned off the phone and turned to face Ahsan.

"I would like you to drive me to Atlantic City, it is as good a place as any to start. I will be searching the streets and the parking lots for the black sedan," Sherlock paused, John might not approve of allowing the young cabbie to be drawn into danger. "It might be dangerous, Ahsan."

Ahsan nodded his head and opened the door of the taxi for the detective. The taxi left the rest area to return to the heavy afternoon traffic of the New Jersey Turnpike. Sherlock reviewed all known information, creating and discarding one hypothesis after another. He did not observe the taxi's rapid lane shifts and near misses with speeding buses and tractor-trailers.

"So 009 is in trouble?" asked Ahsan.

The detective sat with his hands steepled in front of his face, "Yes, Ahsan, but we'll be there soon, and then perhaps, the reckoning can begin."

* * *

John stepped out of the shower to dry off and dress himself in the expensive suit provided by Mr. Jones.

Back when he did missions with Moran, neither John nor Moran had shaved until the end of the assignment. Since John was on a mission, John did not shave tonight. He combed his hair quickly, the dark blond hair just long enough to curl onto his forehead. No longer caring what people thought, John pulled on Sherlock's rather tight and decidedly too long purple shirt. It was probably his last connection to the detective.

John had been so busy with this CIA shite that he rarely thought about the detective anymore. John figured he only thought about Sherlock five or six times an hour. Maybe a bit more, still it wasn't anymore than most people thought about their flatmates. John looked in the mirror. He saw a beat up, skinny old soldier who didn't even rate a uniform. Oh, but that purple shirt, the Sexy Purple Shirt, it looked fantastic, just not on John. He sighed. John put the suit coat on to hide the poor fit of the shirt and knotted his black necktie.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he saw that his hotel suit was filled with agents. He froze when he recognized a pretty blonde woman with blue eyes and freckles. She wore a sequined little black dress with a pearl necklace. Her high heels raised her to John's height, and she strolled over to John to kiss him full on the lips.

"Really, Mary?" asked John. " Really? The last time I saw you, you were in bed with my best friend, and now you are one of my kidnappers. I honestly don't think we're on kissing terms," John pointedly wiped his lips with a tissue.

"Oh John you really are the epitome of the upright, uptight British gentleman," laughed the petite blonde. "As I recall, Seb and I invited you to join us and you refused; it was your loss. But you have to admit; you and I had fun there for a while. Now that we're working together, we have a chance to have some more fun."

John turned to glare at Agent Jones. "So you're afraid that threats, bribery and patriotic duty aren't enough. You had to throw in Mary Morstan to sweeten the offer," said John acerbically. "I suppose I should be flattered that you want me that badly, but actually the whole thing is making me nauseous."

Mary pouted and Mr. Jones narrowed his dark eyes, "Mary Morstan is a top agent. She's worked in Afghanistan, and she knew Colonel Moran as you evidently recall. I came clean this afternoon, Watson; I told you the truth…" said Jones.

"Right, and under the circumstances, I have agreed to help you find as many caches as possible. I will do this so that people won't get hurt, not because of your threats or bribes or because of those so-called army orders," growled John. "I also told you that I prefer to work alone. I won't work with Ms. Morstan or your rainbow boys," snapped Captain Watson.

"I will not negotiate with you Watson. You are under orders, if you try to leave you will be AWOL; if you disobey or deviate from my wishes you will face court-martial," snarled Jones. "For now, Mary is your loving wife until I say otherwise. She will be by your side and in your bed. She will carry your papers and money and gun. You will coöperate doctor, or you will spend the rest of your days at GITMO."

Mr. Jones continued, "Now since we will be traveling under difficult conditions for the foreseeable future, perhaps we can enjoy ourselves in Atlantic City tonight. Since Dr. Watson has his ankle bracelet on, I believe we can allow him a reasonable amount of freedom. Mary, give your husband some money to play with."

Mary insisted on taking John's arm and hanging on him for the first hour. They wandered through the casino. John tried gambling with his generous expense account money, but his heart wasn't in it. Mary whispered in his ear and kissed him repeatedly.

Had she always been like this? He remembered her as a feisty, US army liaison who wore cut off shorts when she wasn't wearing fatigues. He had liked Mary five years ago; she had been fun and exciting. He had been hurt when she dumped him for Moran, but it wasn't like they had been engaged or anything. He had wished her luck and said good-bye.

Now she was cloying and bossy and predatory. She didn't even seem like the same woman now. Mary grabbed his drink and sipped from it; then she wrapped her arm around him and kissed him for at least a minute. John heard whistles and catcalls. He felt himself blush with embarrassment, his brow furrowed in anger.

He had had enough. "Ms. Morstan, since I have the GPS device on my ankle, I would like _permission_," John snarled the last words. "to go outside and walk on the beach."

"Don't ruin your clothes, Johnny, they were very expensive, and stay within a few blocks of the hotel. Mitchell and Crowe are watching your signal very closely, and you know that Crowe has an unfortunate temper," said Mary.

"He has an unfortunate taste in clothes if you ask me. Catch you later Mary Morstan," said John.

She leaned over and kissed John again on the lips slowly and seductively. Many men eyed John enviously. She smiled again and wandered off to the gaming tables.

John all but ran to the bar for a glass of their finest Scotch. He would have been happy with any disinfectant, he thought as he downed the burning liguid. Christ, this is one hell of a mess. I have to call Sherlock, but I haven't got a phone, and he won't answer anyway, and if I do call him, the British Government will squash me like a bug, which is fine since my life is a disaster anyway.

His face was still blood-red and wrinkled with anger, frustration and not a little shame. The soldier silently stewed, I will not, repeat not, remain a virtual prisoner of these stupid CIA agents, and I sure as hell will not be a plaything for Ms. Mary Morstan.

John cut through the crowds with tightly fisted hands and made his way out side to the boardwalk that was still under repair. He took several slow deep breaths of the cool night air. It smelled of the sea and the fresh cut wood from the boardwalk.

The sea was just over the dunes. The ocean was black as the night above it, except where the waning gibbous moon reflected back her silver light. John could just make out the iridescent glow of the sea foam carried in the waves. John was drawn to the rhythmic susurrations of the waves and took the wooden steps down to the to the beach. He kicked off his shoes and immediately got sand all over his expensive new suit.

"Damn the suit," he muttered, his eyes still drawn to the water.

John froze when he was grabbed from behind. His left arm was twisted painfully behind his back, and a hand was clamped tightly over his mouth.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N** I'm sorry for the long delay, and thank you to everyone who has read this fic. A special, big THANK YOU to all who have reviewed it.

Warnings- Rated M for Threats of violence and snogging and swearing.

**Disclaimer** I do not own any rights to Sherlock Holmes nor would I attempt to profit from Sherlock Holmes.

Previously -_John was drawn to the rhythmic susurrations of the waves and took the wooden steps down to the to the beach. He kicked off his shoes and immediately got sand all over his expensive new suit._

"_Damn the suit," he muttered, his eyes still drawn to the water._

_John froze when he was grabbed from behind. His left arm was twisted painfully behind his back and a hand was clamped tightly over his mouth._

Chapter 5

"Dr. Watson, do not attempt to call out or try to run. I am going to remove my hand, and if you must speak, do so quietly. Nod your head if you understand."

John nodded, and the cold, iron-strong hand was slowly removed from his mouth. The fingers trailed down his jaw and lingered around his neck, squeezing lightly, the caress of either a lover or a killer. John's stockinged feet sank lower into the cold damp sand; he took a shuddering breath while chills coursed through his body.

John's left arm was twisted still tighter behind his back. Shooting pains radiated from his arm into his sensitive shoulder. His captor's other arm dropped over John's chest, and the assailant silently pulled John backwards under the boardwalk. Like a spider, thought John darkly.

"Sherlock!" wheezed John; "You practically scared me to death! Do you know that? Do you know what's happening?" whispered the outraged doctor.

"I know a great deal, John," the detective hissed venomously. "I know that you left Baker Street with out a word, Dr. Watson; presumably in order to meet with your girlfriend here. I know that my brother tried to convince me that you were dead, apparently to cover for you and your new CIA friends. I know that you have a beautiful, little, blond lover with pink cheeks and pink lips who can't keep her little, pink hands or luscious, pink lips off of you." Sherlock's voice was soft and low and dangerous. Sherlock's hand trailed back up to John's throat, his long cool fingers curled around the soldier's neck squeezing lightly.

Sherlock had found his missing doctor not imprisoned, but rather roaming about the casino freely with a beautiful, little blonde beauty who made love to his John in public. Frustrated desire consumed Sherlock. Jealousy poisoned him. The agony of yet another betrayal and abandonment drove him to the very brink.

John's heart raced from the combination of arousal and fear. Sherlock was here. Somehow Sherlock was here in the State of New Jersey, holding John in a lover's embrace. And Sherlock was trembling with apparent fury and apparently preparing to kill John Watson.

John could not force his ordinary, little mind to understand this puzzle. Sherlock was angry because he thought John was friends with the CIA and Mary's lover and…

Wait, wait… was Sherlock jealous? Jealous of Mary Morstan? Impossible, yet his long hand was closing around John's throat again. The detective panted his distress; his tense trembling body underscored his passion.

John's eyes fixed on the seemingly peaceful ocean, but violence was imminent. One wrong move and both men would suffer.

Sherlock had it wrong of course, completely wrong. If I fight back, I'll lose because I will lose Sherlock.

John took a breath to begin explaining; then the words froze in John's mouth. He'll never believe me, not when he thinks his massive intellect already solved the puzzle.

Right, Sherlock might not believe me, but he'll bloody well believe himself, the arrogant sod. Right then, the great git needs to deduce it all himself, hopefully before he strangles me.

John, swallowed with difficulty, almost choked by the man he secretly loved. The doctor gasped out hoarsely, "This is a fine way to treat your best friend. I wonder if you also know just how much that hurts my shoulder?"

Sherlock abruptly released John's arm, and his long arm snaked back around John's chest. Sherlock's other hand stopped squeezing but was still poised against John's neck.

"Frankly, you're an idiot, Sherlock. The only thing you got right was the fact that I did leave London." John coughed and cleared his throat. The soldier in him briefly reconsidered the option of fighting back, "That was the worst, most miserable, series of deductions that I ever heard, worse even than Anderson. I suggest that you let go of my bloody throat, and start over, considering all the known facts and all of your observations. Please try to deduce competently this time."

Sherlock's head snapped back as if slapped. How dare that little idiot of a doctor accuse Sherlock Holmes of being incompetent? He slowly closed his eyes to quickly review the data confirming his original damning hypothesis.

"The computer printouts which you left in London indicated that you traveled to the United States, intending to join a private defense contractor. The clothes that you packed were plain and utilitarian, consistent with that goal. You did not pack your date clothing, aftershave or men's cologne, nor did you pack your condoms, which I might add, are old and out of date. I must admit that this evidence is against one of my original deductions; there is no proof that you anticipated an imminent romantic encounter at that time. Judging by the eye-witness accounts, meaning Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, you fled London to escape from the pain of your perceived abandonment by me. I noted at the time that you took my clothing as a sentimental memento," Sherlock took a shuddering breath and his hand dropped to John's shoulder. At least, John had not set out to betray his best friend.

Perhaps John had not planned to meet a girl in the United States, but meet her he had, raged the jealousy in Sherlock's mind palace.

John was relieved that the strangulation was on hold, but there was the embarrassing issue of the Sexy Purple Shirt to take care of. "That's quite a bit better Mr. Genius. Umm, I can explain about the Se…um , Purple Shirt …that is your purple shirt. Well you see, the washing machine broke down," began John.

"Shut up John, I'm thinking,"

"Look, can I…"

"No."

"How the hell do you know about my condoms?"

"Not now, John. Be silent, don't move, don't breathe," said Sherlock; his hand began to trace slow circles up John's neck to his jaw line. His fingers played against the unshaved stubble on John's chin.

John could hardly concentrate on anything but the hand teasing him.

He barely heard Sherlock amend himself, "I mean, breathe, but don't breathe _loudly_." John reminded himself to breathe at all.

Sherlock had reorganized more data within his mind palace, "You were kidnapped, yet now appear to be free and working for the CIA and possibly my brother. I suppose you may have been coerced into coöperation. No doubt, they attempted threats, which is supported by your split lip and the bruising on your face. I imagine that they also tried bribes, which would be about as effective as threats against John Watson, which means not at all. So coercion and bribery were attempted and failed. They may have used blackmail. Or you chose to coöperate based on some noble, altruistic motive. Your body has just straightened into your military parade rest stance, which effectively confirms that hypothesis. So first you are kidnapped, beaten and threatened, then, naturally, you volunteer to work with them anyway because you are a hopeless patriot. Based on our prior experiences, you will not be dissuaded from the mission, no matter how dangerous it may become; so I will not try to stop you." Sherlock huffed his disdain into John's hair sending new chills down John's spine.

"Shut up. I can tell when you are about to interrupt, John. When you removed your shoes, you stopped to rub your ankle, not your injured knee. You have no limp so no ankle injury…" the caressing hand froze. "Oh." Whispered Sherlock. Then again louder, "Oh. They have tethered you with an ankle bracelet; they do not trust you despite your offer of assistance."

"The suit you are wearing is new and expensive yet has not been tailored for you. The legs are too long; even now the hems are dragging in the sand, which by the way, will ruin the suit. The coat sleeves are also too long. Don't squirm, John. I notice these details because I observe, but most people would only notice the very handsome man in a fine suit," complimented the detective.

"I presume that you chose to wear the purple shirt as a sentimental reminder of me, yet also a subtle attempt to thwart their authority. The walk on the beach and the willful destruction of the expensive designer suit that they provided are also indications that you will subvert their authority. Despite your agreement to assist the CIA, I believe that they are right to distrust you. I believe that you have already begun plans to escape from your handlers and complete the mission on your own. Don't speak!"

Sherlock placed his hand back over John's mouth, until John relaxed back into the now excited detective. Sherlock's other arm still hugged John close. The World's Only Consulting Detective sifted and sorted the information in his head seeing new connections now that the jealousy and hurt were not in charge. Deductions poured from his mouth as soon as he completed them.

"Speaking of handlers, the blond woman is meant to be your primary handler. She is not your lover but there is a familiarity between you. Old friends then… perhaps former lovers? She fawned over you and attempted to seduce you in public."

Sherlock mused out loud, "She is the archetype of feminine perfection for John Watson.. She is petite yet buxom, blond, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed and as a CIA agent she must be brave, resourceful and somewhat less stupid than most of the women you date; nevertheless you repeatedly withdrew from her in embarrassment and anger. You chose to escape to the beach alone, rather than spend time with her. Whatever your past connection to this woman, you are not attracted to her now; rather, you are repelled."

"Why? Why don't you succumb to this perfect, blond siren? Answer; you are attracted to someone else. So who? You were driven to leave England when you thought that I left London. You packed very little but that little includes one of my favorite shirts, which you are now wearing in public."

John suddenly found breathing very difficult. The truth was about to come out. Sherlock 'I'm married to my work' Holmes would surely reject John and John's idiotic romantic notions, but wasn't Sherlock still holding John close? His hand was still slowly running over John's face and neck. Didn't that mean something? It must mean something. John was dizzy from this uncertainty; holding his breath again wasn't really helping either.

"John, you have foolishly tried to hide it, but you are in fact attracted to me," announced Sherlock.

'To summarize, you came to the United States because you felt abandoned by the man you desired. You were pursued and captured by the CIA. A woman was assigned as your handler because they know about your past sexual preferences but did not anticipate your new interest in a man, namely me. My brother has stuck his pointed nose into this, so the mission is of international significance. You have agreed to assist them despite their wretched treatment of you thus far, confirming its importance and probable danger. You no doubt plan to escape to complete the mission on your own because you either don't like them or more likely you don't trust them. The distrust is mutual, hence the ankle bracelet and multiple handlers. There, I believe that's everything." Sherlock ended his deductions triumphantly. His jealousy and fear were now vanquished. John had not betrayed or abandoned Sherlock. The detective proudly awaited his blogger's praise.

The truth is out; Sherlock knows about my feelings for him, and he's waiting. John sighed and said quietly, "That's amazing, Sherlock, quite, quite extraordinary." John bit his lip. He was grateful that the dark hid his blush. Sherlock had neither rejected nor encouraged John; so it was all quite confusing.

"I got everything right this time, didn't I?" demanded the detective as he bounced on his toes.

Sherlock shifted his hands to his bloggers shoulders, and spun John around to face him. "Well, didn't I?" he demanded again like an over eager child.  
"Um, well yes. That was spot on." John bit his lip, yet again. "You got everything right that time."

What does Sherlock think about me now? John asked himself desperately.

"Really? Everything was right? Because there's always something…" questioned the detective.

Now is the time to deny my attraction to the madman; deny it now or I'll forever hold your peace.

Or…or I can gamble and admit it all. Right, double or nothing.

"No you got everything exactly right. You were brilliant. Your deductions were flawless," said John. A tentative half a smile raised the left side of his mouth.

"You were deep in thought, John. Well, deep considering your ordinary mind," said the tall detective. "Oh. Oh, you probably expect an apology. As you know I make it a rule to avoid apologies, but in this case, I believe one is deserved," Sherlock paused.

"John I am sorry for my dreadful deductions earlier; I made the classic error of deducing without considering all of the facts. You have come to expect a level of near perfection from me, and I let you down. Please accept my apologies.'

"You're sorry for your mistaken deductions?" asked John nonplussed.

"Certainly, I freely admit that I did not perform up to my usual standards until you reminded me of my duty. Of course from that point on, I was, as you said, spot on," replied the smug man.

"What about you leaving London and leaving me another bloody note? What about nearly strangling me or… or nearly breaking my arm?" demanded the aggrieved soldier who blinked up at his friend.

"The first was necessary and the second of no great importance. You are a strong, sturdy fellow. I don't think you'll break with a little rough handling. But…I suppose I should apologize for not observing your attraction to me much sooner. I confess that I did not realize that you were capable of hiding your emotions quite so well..." Sherlock loomed over John; his mouth quirked up in that teasing half-smile that he wore when he was greatly amused.

John looked up to the detective's eyes glittering darkly. Sherlock grinned back, proud at his obvious success. Sherlock was so bloody handsome when he solved a puzzle. John got lost in his admiration of the glittering eyes, the mysterious cheekbones and the waves of dark hair. Oh God, why did he have to fall in love with a genius who believed emotions were a fault, a weakness?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his grin fading, and he tilted his head considering his blogger.

John's discomfort grew. What the bloody hell did Sherlock Bloody Holmes really think about John's feelings toward him? Was he disgusted, angry, flattered? Did he care about John the same way, even just a little bit? Was he amused, bored. Oh God, he probably finds it dull, dull and annoying.

"John, your fists are clenched and your forehead is all wrinkled in that way that means you are upset and nervous. The question is, why? I've correctly observed your attraction for me and deduced the current situations. I have apologized for my lapses. Nevertheless you are disturbed; in fact you are more disturbed than before," Sherlock's eyebrows lowered, his lips parted slightly. What was bothering his blogger now?

"It's nothing Sherlock, it's fine really."

It is fine, thought John, because Sherlock plainly doesn't care one way or the other. So I will ignore my idiotic 'attraction to Sherlock". I will just have to ignore the fact that I'm in love with him, but at least he'll still let us be friends.

"Right. You deduced everything correctly and you even apologized, sort of. Only you, Sherlock Holmes, would offer a heartfelt apology for an incorrect deduction," John sighed but smiled, while he straightened up into his soldier's stance. After all, soldiers accept their fate bravely. "So, apology accepted. We can still be friends then, right? We just go on as before, but maybe we should communicate our plans a bit more, yeah? Less chance for these mix-ups, yeah?"

"Obviously, we'll still be friends John. However, I'm not sure that we'll go on exactly as before. I know now that you are attracted…"

"Look as long as we're clearing the air, I am not just attracted to you! It's love! For God's sake Sherlock, I love you. You make it sound like we're a set of bloody magnets. If we must talk about it, and I'd really rather not, then say it right. You now know that I love you. John loves Sherlock. Fine," John fixed his gaze in the sand, which he kicked violently. "Look all that matters is that we can still be friends. I promise to keep my feelings well hidden, and I won't follow you around looking for affection or sentiment. Now I expect that you don't understand this, but, um, for ordinary people Sherlock, well, it hurts when the person you love doesn't um, love you back even when you're friends. So yes I'm a bit upset now, but I can get past it…mphumph"

When John had said, 'John loves Sherlock.' Whole walls of Sherlock's mind palace crumbled. Sherlock would have to renovate whole sections of his mind palace now. And John kept blithering.

Sherlock leaned over his blithering blogger and silenced him. Sherlock crushed his lips against John's lips.

John was vaguely aware that Sherlock's lips were surprisingly warm and amazingly soft. And yet the kiss was very hard and forceful. John gave up any attempt at coherent thought and relied on instinct.

John tasted infinitely better than Sherlock had imagined. When Sherlock licked across his blogger's lower lip he got a sharp metallic taste from John's cut lip. There was a faint, very distasteful flavor of makeup, the hateful pink lipstick. Sherlock licked it off slowly and thoroughly. John's lips parted in a sigh and Sherlock took immediate advantage, his tongue slipped in between John's lips. Once in his bloggers mouth, Sherlock could taste a hint of John's minty toothpaste, the Scotch whiskey and the heady flavor of just John Watson.

John threw an arm around his slim detective's waist and pulled him close. Then he put one hand up to Sherlock's face, slowly running his fingertips across a razor-sharp cheekbone. His fingers drifted into Sherlock's soft curls, pulling down the taller man's face so that John's lips could follow the path of his fingers in an arc of kisses across his detective's face.

Sherlock mimicked the motions of John's hand and his long-fingered hands caressed John's roughly stubbled jaw. Sherlock buried his face in John's hair, noting the soft texture and the fruity scent of the shampoo, most likely supplied by the hotel. His fingers played across John's face; his thumbs began to massage John's face harder as he memorized the feel of the yielding, unshaven cheeks, and the hard bone structure underneath. John flinched sharply when a thumb pressed into his bruised cheek. Sherlock froze.

"I assume too much," he said in a monotone, as he pulled away from John.

"Silly, git. It's fine; it's just a bruise. It stung a bit is all," said John, his brain re-engaging.

His idiotic detective was so sensitive. Sherlock was trying for his aloof, mysterious, tall look and John wasn't having any of that now, not bloody now. He pulled Sherlock close again. "That's where one of the overgrown Yetis tried to break my face. They were pissed off because I showed them up. Even though there were eight of them I left a mark on each of them and put three of them out of commission before they finally knocked me out," bragged the soldier proudly.

"Stop bragging, John. I would have expected nothing less from you. You are stupidly brave no matter the danger to yourself, and you'll break my heart with it one of these days," complained Sherlock. He tugged on his blogger's arm.

"Hey! Where are we going now? Sherlock?" sputtered John.

The tall detective insistently dragged the doctor out into the moonlight. His eyes narrowed further and his brows drew down as he studied John's face. John's jaw was bruised, as was his cheek; he also had that swollen, split lip.

"I'd forgotten about your injuries; you are very distracting, John Watson. The injuries to your face are obvious. Did they hurt you anywhere else?" Sherlock took in a deep breath, "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. First they bullied and beat you, and then I bullied you. I hurt you… I hurt your arm, my…I, your neck." Sherlock's voice rumbled in John's chest. "John, are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Sherlock, I'm fine, just some bruises, and the cut knee is my own fault from jumping from the train," reassured John.

"The train, that was foolish, John," whispered the detective.

Sherlock's hands methodically ran over John's face, arms and body searching for injuries for which restitution would be required.

John gasped involuntarily when the long tapered fingers found his bruised ribs. Sherlock growled again, low and deep.

John could not resist the pull of that deep voice. John turned his face up and pulled his detective's face lower so John's lips could reach Sherlock's.

John pressed his lips gently to the Cupid's bow and moved his lips slowly over the soft lips of the World's Only Consulting Detective. Sherlock was still for only a few heartbeats before he returned the kiss, hungrily sucking John's lower lip in and tasting the old blood from John's split lip.

Sherlock mentally tallied each injury, no matter how slight. "I am going to kill whoever did this to you John," said the detective matter-of-factly John did not doubt him; and his blood ran cold.

He pulled away from Sherlock's renewed kiss. "No you will not kill anyone over something so stupid, so minor. I can mmph" Sherlock took over John's lips again. Gently sucking and then running his tongue against John's chapped lips. "Are you listening, Sherlock?. No umm…oh God," whispered John softly.

"Fine, John, I will only almost kill them. Satisfied?" Sherlock took advantage of John's parted lips. His tongue began to explore his little blogger's mouth again. John moaned, stoking the fire in his partner.

Eventually, they had to stop to breathe. The two men collapsed into each other, each man bracing up the other. John still held Sherlock around his waist while Sherlock's hands hung down over John's back, randomly tracing symbols from the Periodic Table.

"Sherlock, was that...was that a real apology just now? I thought I heard you say you were sorry. You apologize very nicely; I particularly liked the kissing part." John, still panting, smiled cheekily up at Sherlock, his full, genuine smile that he rarely shared with anyone but Sherlock. Sherlock had not seen John smile at all for the blonde. The last remnants of jealousy faded away.

John stood up on his tiptoes and smiled again in the moonlight. Sherlock was overcome by the look of love and adoration on John's face; a look that Sherlock had never expected to see turned to him. He stood bemused, his head tilted to the side, memorizing that look. "I suppose I should apologize too. I'm sorry Sherlock Holmes for panicking and leaving London." John brought his lips to Sherlock's again, caressing and licking. He broke off to trail kisses down the detectives jaw and along his neck. Between kisses he murmured softly, "I'm sorry, if I worried you. I'm sorry I took your shirt."

He smiled up at the taller man. "You know Sherlock, I think I like apologizing," said John softly, wrapping his strong arms around his detective's waist even tighter.

Sherlock smirked and smoothed his Belstaff coat; then he placed his hands back on John's shoulders, "John. I need data in order to make plans. I need to know more about what is going on here; you have to tell me…"

"Nothing, I was told to tell you nothing," said John firmly. "Apparently if I do, it will be bad for my health. Oh stop scowling," he chuckled at Sherlock's frown and lowered brows, "of course, I intend to tell you everything in spite of my fragile health.

"Forget the threats John. I will handle Mycroft. You didn't have to say it out loud; it is quite obvious that Mycroft threatened you over me. I may have to kill him too," replied the angry detective.

"Listen to me Sherlock," ordered Captain Watson," I will tell you everything but only if you promise not to kill anyone except in self-defense or to protect someone else. NO! Get that look off of your face. No 'revenge killing', or 'teaching someone a lesson killing'. Agreed? Promise me!" John pulled on the lapels of Sherlock's coat. He looked up at his statuesque companion. Moonlight softened the man's angular features, even the famous razor sharp cheekbones. The detective gazed down at John with a hint of a smile; there was something close to affection on his face.

John, in his stockinged feet, perched himself on top of Sherlock's expensive Oxfords, and brought his face closer to Sherlock's, "Look, I'm a soldier and I know that sometimes people have to die, but could we please try to limit the body count."

Sherlock surrendered, "Fine, John," he sighed, "I promise you, no unnecessary killings. I apologize if it disturbed you," Sherlock took a hold of John's chin to tilt his face up and kissed John thoroughly in return.

Sherlock rested his chin on John's head. "Now, I'm still waiting, John. Please explain what it is that the CIA wants with John Watson."

"The CIA has been searching for Sebastian Moran's old hidey holes," said John. "They think he's got caches of guns and money and drugs scattered throughout Afghanistan. They think I can find them, since I was a member of his spec ops team back in Afghanistan. Personally, I think the caches will have been looted by his cronies."

John shifted his weight. "Am I too heavy, standing on your feet?"

"Never too heavy John, and I find I like it. Besides, it makes you a bit taller, easier to reach." Sherlock was entranced with this new and improved relationship. Apparently he had unlimited access to John's face. Sherlock kissed his blogger; he relished the sliding caresses of John's soft, dry lips, the rough pull of his stubble and the soft fluttering from his eyes. "Yes, now, John, continue. You think the caches will be empty but…?"

John tried to re-gather his thoughts, which had scattered like the sand on the beach. "Um right, but… the big problem is that the CIA thinks that the Colonel got a hold of a tactical nuclear device before he died, and so far, they haven't found it. They think that maybe he stashed the nuke in one of his old caches."

"Almost everyone on this CIA team is an idiot; I mean they all wear the same clothes like no one will take notice. They all wore pastel polo shirts this morning, not that that should matter but it was so…so stupid and obvious! It took eight of them over thirty hours to catch one disabled doctor. I don't think they know what to do with their guns. I really don't," said John.

"I have no choice Sherlock. Even though I don't trust Jones or Morstan, I have to help them find that nuke before the Taliban or some other group gets their hands on it."

"And why in God's name would they ask you for help and not me? I tracked Moran the last year of his life and arranged for his death. I am moderately famous as a detective," demanded the detective, truly insulted now.

"Oh for heaven's sake, they don't need a detective. And they don't want me because I'm such a great soldier. They need a map. I happen to be the map. As far as they know, I'm the only person left, who has actually been to the old hidden depots. He had half a dozen that I know of. He worried that he might need supplies or hidden bunkers in an emergency. One cache was found and looted years ago, but he might have set it up again. Unfortunately, all but one will be too hard to find with out going there in person. They are mostly hidden in among the hills and rocks and wasteland; and there are no landmarks," said John sighing.

"I did tell Jones that I'd rather work by myself," added John, "but you can imagine how that went. They plan to surround me 24/7 with guards, namely Mary and the Lavender Moron and his pastel partners."

"They don't trust you. Perhaps they don't believe in your honesty and integrity. Or perhaps they realize that you are honest and feel that it will become a hindrance later, if they want the goods for themselves. That would mean that your life isn't worth much, once you give them what they want," muttered Sherlock. He grabbed his blogger protectively.

"Well the immediate plan is that the team will head back to New York City tomorrow, and then we head to Shanghai from JFK the next day. I don't know their plans after that," said John.

"Good. You will go along with them tomorrow. I will come to get you tomorrow night. That will give me time to get prepared," said Sherlock. "Where do you plan to go, John?"

"India, I plan to go to India first. There was a cache in India, and I know some people there that can help me with, um stuff, guns and stuff." said John. "Sherlock, I don't expect you to go. You're not a soldier and…"

Sherlock silenced John again with a forceful kiss. "That's for even suggesting that I let you go with out me," Sherlock finally pulled back a few inches. "John, I may not be a soldier, but you are not a detective. We work together as a team."

"Oh? That's why you went off on your own and let me think you were dead? That's why you left again last week, because that's team work?" challenged John.

"We don't have time to argue about the Moriarty debacle yet again. As far as last week is concerned, I was called away suddenly by Mummy, and I thought you should stay in London to rest and recuperate," said the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"Mummy? You were called away by Mummy?" asked John. "Is she alright? She isn't…"

"She's fine. I was needed to find my Auntie's dognapped poodle, Gigi. I regretted not bringing you many times, and no more so than now, when you have been dragged into an ill-advised treasure hunt with ersatz CIA agents under the aegis of my fat, traitorous, brother," Sherlock absently shook his shorter friend while the detective glared at the inoffensive moon.

"Hey!" protested the shaken soldier.

"You have to return to the CIA agents temporarily," said the World's Only Consulting Detective. "I will need the day to prepare for your escape and our travel. I will meet you in your hotel room probably after midnight. Please be ready. Don't let them know you are ready. Don't worry about your luggage; I'll replace it all. I think that covers everything." Sherlock smirked at his blogger.

"Um, everything except the ankle bracelet on my leg," said John.

"Well, well I can remove it easily enough tomorrow night. It's best to let them think that they have you tethered, until of course they don't." Sherlock slipped his hands up under John's suit coat and ran them over his back humming softly.

"But you don't even know what hotel…" said John leaning up against Sherlock's strong, lean body.

"John, let me worry about that; I am sorry to send you back to them tonight," Sherlock kissed him again, a long lingering kiss. "Oh and John, keep as far from that Morstan woman as possible. Do not forget that you belong to me now. You won't see me, but I will be watching." Sherlock lifted John up and planted him back into the sand. The World's Only Consulting Detective turned abruptly, his coat swirling behind him, and he disappeared into the shadows.

"Melodramatic git." John muttered. A small part of him actually wondered if he had just hallucinated the entire encounter. However there was a probable love bite just under his collar. And come of think of it, where was his necktie and how did his shirt get unbuttoned so far?

John stayed on the beach and waded in the cold water for another hour just to show everyone that he could. He was sure that his suit trousers were seriously damaged. Good. Then he returned to his suite, Mary wasn't there yet, so John locked and barricaded the door. He did not want to set Sherlock off on another jealous fit.

At 0320 hours Mary Morstan and one of the Men-in-Black tried to enter John's suite. Naturally, Mary had a key but John had bolted the door from the inside and pushed furniture in front of the door for good measure. He told them both to sod off through the locked door.

At 0500 hours, John got up after a short nap for a nice long jog on the beach. Twenty minutes later three of his escorts came running, short of breath.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Watson? You're out of range!" yelled Mitchell.

John jogged in place in the surf so that the Men-in-Ratty-Tees would get all wet too. "I'm jogging, it's supposed to be good for you," a larger wave came in and drenched John and more importantly, Crowe.

Crowe lunged for John who sidestepped; predictably Crowe fell in the water. John began jogging back to the hotel. Crowe caught up to John, and predictably, the two began to fight. Even better, as John saw it, it began to rain, drenching his captors. Soon all the team was out on the beach trying to break up the fight between John and Crowe.

By the time it was over, Crowe's nose was bleeding again and he had two black eyes and two broken fingers. John had a black eye, more bruised ribs and a minor facial laceration. Somehow a tall redheaded agent received a bloody nose and a shorter, balding man was holding his groin. All the CIA agents including Jones and Morstan ended up cold, wet and sandy. John trudged up to the hotel trying to appear angry, but secretly he was very pleased with himself. He got to see the ocean; he got to jog, and he got to repeatedly hit someone, which partially satisfied his smoldering anger over the whole bloody situation. He was also pleased to see an exhausted Mary Morstan and Mr. Jones out in the cold rain.

The smug army Captain finished his workout in the gym, enjoyed a shower and sauna and another shower. Oddly, the other guests kept their distance from John, perhaps his cuts and bruises put them off. Then again, perhaps it was the security ankle bracelet, which made him look like a desperate criminal. He didn't try to hide his self-satisfied little smile.

John returned to his hotel suite to find his lovely 'wife' waiting. "You're not making any friends John," she said sternly. "You didn't need to lock me out last night, and you didn't need to run on the beach at 5 am."

"You lot didn't have to kidnap me in the first place, and I can't help it if Crowe has anger management issues and very poor taste in clothing," said John, helping himself to the room-service tray of fruit, juice, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee. There was even a basket of assorted jams.

"Thanks for the breakfast Ms. Morstan," said John tucking in with a real appetite.

"I didn't order it; you have an admirer, the breakfast tray came with a red rose and a note," said Mary sourly. "The note reads, **I send my apologies to you although I would prefer to do so in person." **John blushed a deep red but continued eating.

The sea air must have stimulated his appetite he thought. Of course snogging the World's Only Consulting Detective may have influenced his appetite too.

Hmmm. John hummed as he looked over the complimentary newspaper. Hmmm, more apologies, he thought, pleased.

"Well, I can see that you must have met a woman more to your taste last night, John Watson. I remember why they called you Three Continent's John," she said with a knowing smirk.

"Watson, it was Three Continents Watson. Feel free to have some breakfast Ms. Morstan,; my admirer sent more than I can possibly eat," added John.

The team, including the very unpopular Dr. Watson, assembled down in the lobby. The Men-in-Black were back in their trademark suits. Jones wore a dark blue suit, Moran an aubergine skirt and jacket.

Regrettably, John had lost his new dress shoes and his tie last night. His suit trousers were indeed a loss, so John proudly held up the British end in his torn, blue jeans, black tee-shirt, his wrinkled sports coat and of course his boots. He slapped a new Giants ball cap on his head and tried not to look too smug. Yes, the CIA team was seriously annoyed, and John was quite proud of himself. John was escorted to the car, surrounded by hulking Men-in-Black. The CIA team split itself into each of the two black sedans and headed back to New York City.

**TBC**

**A/N **Almost everyone knew it was Sherlock at the end of the last chapter; so much for cliffhangers. Reviews, comments and suggestions are always welcome.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning** rated MA for violence and smut, if you are under 18 years of age, please skip this chapter. Yes, you have been warned you about smut.

**Disclaimer** Of course I don't own the rights for Sherlock Holmes; no doubt the silly things in this fic would shock the real owners of these rights

**Chapter 6**

Once Jones's team arrived in New York City, John was escorted to his hotel room and locked in. Two Men-in-Black stood outside his hotel room. At least one agent stayed in the room with him the whole time.

John pretended a fascination with cable television; he also suffered from acute hearing loss and turned the volume way up. He watched a show about shark attacks on the Discovery Chanel. Mary soon left the room in disgust.

He watched cooking shows; Mrs. Hudson would have enjoyed the recipe for roasted chicken stuffed with onion and garlic. An agent named Cochran fell asleep while a TV chef made scones; Cochran was removed in disgrace.

Mitchell convinced John to watch American football. They ordered beer and nachos from room service. Naturally, the agent had to explain the rules over and over, but John eventually mastered concepts such as first downs and touchbacks. John enjoyed the violent, semi-gladiatorial match. Mitchell kept nattering on about his team making more touchdowns and beating John's team, but in the last seconds of the game, John's team, The Giants, won.

"Yes! They touched the down!" yelled John. He and Mitchell high-fived one another. By the end of the afternoon, John almost liked nachos, American Football and Mitchell in that order. When Mary came to dress for dinner, she found Mitchell slightly inebriated, and he was removed in disgrace.

At 1930 hours John ordered room service for dinner. He picked at his chicken Alfredo and nursed his Bud Light. The food was bland and greasy; the beer tasted like water from a canteen. John had no appetite anyway since Crowe was in the room; besides he had had all those nachos earlier. He certainly wasn't nervous about Sherlock's impending rescue was a soldier with nerves of steel. John found a very dull PBS documentary on subsistence farming to watch, and Crowe fell asleep. Another agent sent off in disgrace, thought John with a smirk. John did not like Crowe.

Mary came to join her fictitious husband at 2300 hours. She tried to undress in front of him, but he hid in the bathroom until she got into bed.

"Come to bed John; I promise I won't bite, unless you want me to." she said suggestively.

"Oh very original," snarked John. "You go ahead and sleep. I'm not tired; I'm watching the telly."

"Oh la de da, the telly? How British!" she teased with an exaggerated accent.

"I am British, Ms. Morstan," he snapped. He tried to keep his eyes on the telly, since Mary was wearing some very revealing, black, silky thing.

"Come on, John. We should be having a few laughs; it's not like we don't already know each other," said Mary.

She made John very nervous in that black, silky thing. He was worried that Sherlock would be all weird and jealous, if he saw her in John's bed.

"Are you going to spend the night in that chair, fully dressed?" she asked skeptically.

"Yep," he answered, his eyes glued to the telly. He was watching a special on the making of the movie, "The Hobbit".

"Sebastian used to call you the Hobbit, didn't he?" she asked.

"Yes, and that was very original too. Thank you for reminding me," snapped John.

"Well turn down the volume Johnny, so I can sleep; if we're not going to do anything more interesting tonight," said Mary with a pout.

"We are not going to do anything interesting, ever again," snapped John. "And don't call me Johnny."

"Good night, Johnny," she said languidly.

John thought of several replies but none were proper to repeat in front of a lady. Even if she's no lady, thought John sulkily.

It was 1230 hours and Sherlock was late again. He was always late. Something must have happened to him. What if an American gang mugged him? Sherlock could be in some A and E; no they call it an Emergency Room here. John really needed a coffee or a beer, or both. He wanted to get up and pace, but of course that would only alert Mary and the other guards.

At 0230 hours John was a nervous wreck. He was watching a show on the sources of the legends of vampires and werewolves. It was absurd, and still it made him more nervous than he already was. Sherlock was probably lying in an ally way dead. Maybe Jones and company got Sherlock. Surely they wouldn't be stupid enough to hurt the brother of Mycroft Holmes. John needed to hurt someone, preferably Crowe.

At 0247, John heard a dull thump from the hallway.

"What was that!" demanded Mary sitting up wide-awake.

"Probably just the neighbors doing something interesting," quipped John. He turned the volume up on the telly.

"Oh for God's sake, turn the damn television off!" yelled Mary. She turned her head at another thudding sound in the hall. She started to get up out of bed, and reached for the holster strapped to her leg.

"OK, fine! I can't stand it anymore. I want you Mary; I always did!" yelled John over the sound of fake werewolf howling. John lunged for Mary, grabbing her arms.

"Oh, really, John? I didn't know you liked it rough," she said laughing seductively.

"Yeah, well I guess there's a lot you don't know about me!" he yelled. At least the thumping from the hall had stopped. However, there was thumping from the room above, and someone shouted something about keeping it down.

The door burst open and Sherlock strode in, his hair wild and his clothing disheveled. He had a cut over his cheekbone and the knuckles on his right hand were bleeding. His eyes widened when he saw John half on the bed, holding down a writhing, half-naked blonde.

"What the hell are you doing, John?" snarled Sherlock.

Mary looked between the wide-eyed and now snarling detective and the wide-eyed man with the gaping mouth who was on top of her. "Oh yes, Johnny, kiss me again, and again!" she yelled breathlessly.

John looked down at her, "Oh for God's sake Morstan, shut up!" yelled John, he put one hand over her mouth, and tried to hold her wrists with the other.

"Shaddup," yelled a guest from upstairs.

"I was trying to stop her from pulling a gun on you, Sherlock. I could use a little help now!" yelled John. Mary freed her leg and kicked his knee and stomach. He kept his hand over her mouth but her arms fought loose. Mary and John both grappled for her gun.

"Drop her John! Get away from her now!" ordered Sherlock sharply.

John looked over to Sherlock startled and got kicked in the face. He fell to the floor. Sherlock fired a taser. Mary dropped, shook once and was still.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Was that really necessary?" John checked her pulse and breathing; she was fine but unconscious.

"Idiot! You said no killings; of course the taser was necessary. How else was I supposed to disable five agents," snarled Sherlock. "I'm sorry if I disrupted any other plans that you had for your girlfriend…"

"Shut up! Jut shut up. She is not my girlfriend. D'ya suppose I would try to make love fully clothed and wearing boots? Really?" John was furious but still grabbed her handgun. He stood up rubbing his mouth. "And I think I have a loose tooth."

"John, we're leaving, now," ordered the enraged detective.

"Here let me see your face," said John.

"I said, we're leaving John! Take her gun but leave everything else behind," ordered Sherlock. Under his lowered brows, his eyes were chips of glacial ice.

"My laptop!" said John.

"Leave it!"

"No, they'll read it. They'll…"

Sherlock picked up John's laptop and smashed it against the table until it was in pieces. John was rooted in place, beyond shocked. Sherlock pulled a component out of the mess. "Now I've got the hard drive. Oh and John, that piece there is the GPS tracker that they installed in your laptop. Where is your phone?"

Abashed, John silently dropped his phone into Sherlock's outstretched hand, who then ground it underfoot.

John pursed his lips but said nothing. He stepped into the hall and checked the two agents who were still unconscious, although one was beginning to move a bit.

Exasperated, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him toward the stairwell. John joined the detective without any argument. They tore down seven flights before Sherlock suddenly whirled and stared at John.

"What?" asked John.

"Lipstick. I don't see any lipstick on you. None on your face or neck or shirt," he said breathlessly. Then he shoved his blogger against the wall and kissed him furiously, his tongue taking possession of John's mouth again. John's mouth tasted of beer and blood and cheap spices and John. It did not taste of a woman or her makeup. Her perfume was on John's hands but not on John's face or neck. Relief flooded the consulting detective. He kissed John again deeply, slowly lifting him off the ground.

Then John was set back down hard, "Come on John, we have to hurry. They'll be following soon enough."

"Jesus Christ!" John gasped, "Jesus Christ Sherlock. You're the one who stopped to snog me. And what about lipstick? I… Jesus Christ." John just followed the crazed detective, muttering loudly. "Jesus Christ, and they say I have trust issues."

"John now is not the time. Remember to be silent when we exit through the basement, the staff is on duty and although I paid them a large bribe…" he fixed John with his icy blue eyes. "Good John, now stay quiet."

John's forehead furrowed deeply and his fists clenched with irritation but he remained silent. They ran past staff sorting and folding laundry and pushing cleaning carts and garbage bins. As far as the workers were concerned, the tall wild-eyed detective and his shorter companion were invisible.

Sherlock lifted his head, "I hear the pursuit. Faster John," They tore through the halls and out into a dark, concrete loading dock. Sherlock jumped down four feet to the wet asphalt. John was dragged behind him. Unprepared, John half jumped and half fell; he ended up on his hands and knees in a puddle before Sherlock yanked him up again.

"Come on, John," demanded the younger man. They ran down the ally and onto a bigger street. A fine mist hung in the air, making ghosts of the distant lights and traffic signals. The damp night air was cold and sharp, it cut painfully into John's laboring lungs.

Two blocks later Sherlock led them down into the subway. Seemingly at home in the New York subways, he pulled out MetroCards and quickly led John onto a platform and then onto a train. There was only one old man in the car. Sherlock sat and pulled his blogger down next to him.

"You're a mess John. You have mud on your face, your jacket is soaked and your knee is covered in blood. No wonder the other passenger fled when he saw you," said the consulting detective.

John looked up wearily, yes indeed, the old man was gone. "You have a laceration, and it needs cleaning and some butterfly sutures," he told his companion, shaking a finger.

Sherlock tsked, took out a fine monogrammed handkerchief and began wiping at John's face.

"Here, I can do it myself…" struggled John.

"For goodness sake John, hold still. I'm trying to inspect the damage while cleaning you up." Sherlock held John's chin still. "Of course you had to pick a fight with them this morning," he smirked superiorly. "I told you that you'd be watched, John. At least, you did not choose to go to dinner with that strumpet."

"Strumpet? Nobody says strumpet anymore. Stop messing with my face; you're the one whose face is bleeding. Do you have another pocket-handkerchief?" asked the soldier.

The subway train rocked side-to-side and side-to-side again as it snaked through the black tunnels.

"And d'you know; you're a wee bit over possessive? You do know that, don't you?" asked John.

"I am obsessive John, I thought you knew that going in. I am, and always will be, possessive of what is mine. And you are now mine," he said flatly.

"I guess that rules out dating for me then?" said John.

Sherlock's dark brows lowered into a single angry line.

"Um, bad joke. You may not have noticed but I've been faithful to you since before you returned from the, from being away for so long. So I'm fine with dating only you; as long as you're only dating me too." John stared at Sherlock now, his dark blue eyes demanding. "Assuming that we are dating, I mean."

"The word dating sounds stupid, but if you must have a word for it, I suppose it will do," said Sherlock rolling his eyes. Secretly, he was very pleased with the word.

"I don't care what we call it Sherlock, I'm trying to find out if this is actually a relationship and if it is exclusive. As in …"

"I understand exclusivity John. It isn't likely to be an issue for me. It was never likely that I'd find anyone with whom I'd want to be in a relationship with, let alone have that person reciprocate my feelings. I would call it a miracle that I found you, if I believed in miracles. I will surely never find anyone besides you, and we both know it. You, on the other hand, could find someone tomorrow," said Sherlock, looking aloof.

Ah, the defensive pose thought John. "Right, like they've all been knocking down the doors to get to me." He scooted closer to the icy statue next to him, so that their arms and legs lightly touched. Sherlock's glacial stiffness slowly melted with John's reassuring warmth.

The pair rode in silence as the brakes screeched and the car stuttered to a halt. The doors whisked open and three young people got on and staggered down the aisle, giggling. Sherlock gave them the death glare. One of the youths flipped him off, and then they ran through to the next car.

"Smooth Sherlock, we'll make lots of friends that way," joked the shorter, blond soldier. "It may interest you to know that while I've dated lots of women, I've never been in love before now," John jabbed the skinny man next to him, "And I've been in love with you for years. Even when I had no hope, I still loved only you, so there." John jabbed him in the chest again. "Annnd, this is where we would kiss, if we weren't in public…"

Sherlock bent down and kissed his blogger gently. "Get ready to dash again John, we get out here." Surprisingly, John found himself pleased with the public display of affection, even if it was on an empty subway car that smelled of garbage and worse.

Breaks shrieked in protest and the train came to another shuddering stop. The pair ran out the door. Sherlock pulled his partner up the escalators and into a station then back down more escalators onto the platform and into another train. "Just two stops and we'll get off."

They rode in the railcar, John holding a pole and Sherlock a strap. The five or six other riders ignored them. John was utterly lost in the labyrinthine subway system. He watched the lights flicker with a scowl.

"Here, we get out here," said Sherlock.

They waited on the empty platform as three more trains came and went. When the last passenger from the last train disappeared up the stairs, Sherlock grabbed his blogger's hand and pulled him into the train tunnel.

The lights from the platform quickly faded leaving the tunnel dark.

"This is not a good idea Sherlock," grumbled John. "That track is electrified and if we fall…"

"Yes, yes. If we fall, we will be electrocuted," said the exasperated detective. "I suggest we don't fall."

"Really? Brilliant, why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot. Almost everyone is," Sherlock almost smiled to himself.

The dark walls curved to the to the left. After five minutes, the light from the platform was entirely gone. John saw nothing. He raised his hand in front of his face and waved it, but he saw nothing. John could hear occasional drips of water and the humming from the tracks. The air moved erratically and smelled like an unpleasant mixture of sewer and ozone.

"No, this is really stupid, there won't be enough room when a train passes through," said John, rather breathless. "We'll be sucked under or hit or crushed. There're probably lots of rats and spiders in here, probably black widow spiders… Christ! what if a train does come?"

"John, did you complain this much on missions in Afghanistan?" asked Sherlock.

"I can't see anything Sherlock. Nothing," said John, his voice noticeably rising in pitch. "But I'm sure I heard a rat."

"John, take my hand, we're fine. We're doing fine," said Sherlock. "What did you do on your missions in Afghanistan?"

"We didn't walk in dark, rat and spider filled tunnels on purpose. Something dripped on my neck. Jesus, we aren't under one of those rivers are we? Do you think we're under the Hudson River, Sherlock? I wonder if Mrs. Hudson has heard about the Hudson River?" asked John with a shaky laugh. John paused, desperately trying to think of something else besides the dark. He thought of the trains. "When the next train comes through, we're dead. You realize this don't you?" asked John, who clutched his companion's hand tightly.

"We will be fine, John. I've timed the trains perfectly. The next one won't be along for at least twelve minutes. We will be safely at an abandoned access tunnel by then," reassured Sherlock.

"Something is dripping on me. It could be river water. It could be anything… I hear a train. I definitely hear a train," said John sharply, his voice squeaking.

"Impossible John, it's just an echo," said Sherlock confidently. "We're fine"

"No. No we're not," John's voice was rising again, "We're not fine. I hear a train. A train is coming."

Sherlock switched on a small pocket torch. He flashed it along the walls. "There're no other tunnels, John. We'll just have to keep moving. I'll leave the light on until…"

"Sherlock, that's a train. It's a train. It's a train Sherlock."

"I don't understand. It's not scheduled." Sherlock snapped. "There's a recess here; get in it, John."

"Nooo, you get in it. I'm smaller, I'll get in front of you, on your feet." yelled John.

"There's no time, John."

A light reflected around the curve of the tunnel, as the train raced toward them the sound rising in pitch as it closed in on them. John shoved Sherlock into the recess and Sherlock grabbed his blogger, lifting him up. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and head and leaned over him.

The train was on them, screaming, thundering past. Overheated wind sucked at them and the light stuttered around them like a strobe.

"John!" screamed Sherlock into his partner's chest. The hot vortex created by the speeding train wanted John. It was pulling John out of his arms. He clutched his blogger to him, repeating John's name over and over like a prayer for salvation.

The train was past, sucking the air after it. They gasped breathlessly in the brief vacuüm. The silence pulsed with the trains dwindling thunder. John's arms still covered his friend's head protectively. He was wordless.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock yelled. He set his blogger down with shaking arms. John stood to the side of him in the pitch black. Sherlock put his hands out in the dark and felt John's face, his head nodding, yes. He grabbed John's hand, "Come on John, we're almost there."

They half ran for several minutes.

"I hear another train," croaked John. Sherlock pulled harder. Suddenly emptiness opened up behind them.

"It's the access tunnel, John," Sherlock pulled John into the tunnel.

"I hear a train, Sherlock!" John said, his voice bordering on hysteria.

"It's fine, you're safe, John. You're in the access tunnel. You're safe," yelled the detective. Sherlock pushed John up against the damp, slimy wall and kissed John's forehead. Then he kissed his eyes, he left a trail of kisses along his blogger's jaw. He began to kiss John's lips as the howling train passed by. In staccato bursts, the lights faintly illuminated the side tunnel and the two men desperately kissing.

John, the train forgotten, sucked on Sherlock's lip and his tongue pressed in, demanding entrance. His senses were filled with the taste and smell and feel of Sherlock. John reveled in the taste of stale coffee and cigarette in his lover's mouth. He loved the feel of the strong, whipcord muscles in the tall man's neck and arms.

Sherlock parted his lips and sucked on John's tongue. Sherlock opened John's coat and he pulled down the collar of John's tee-shirt. He kissed John's neck, and along his collarbone, eliciting a long, low moan of desire from his doctor.

John's hands clutched Sherlock's hair, finally forcing him to raise his head so that John could kiss him again. Sherlock pressed John against the wall harder, he began to grind himself against John who dropped his head backwards onto the damp stonework, moaning, "Sherlock."

Sherlock grasped John's hips, pulling him closer so that they could rut together through their clothes. It wasn't enough. He needed more of John; he needed all of John. Sherlock began to unfasten John's belt and jeans. The jeans dropped to John's knees.

"John…John, I need you. Please."

"Oh God, yes," breathed John in answer. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, exposing his smooth, lean chest. John nestled his head in and began to kiss Sherlock's chest. Another train passed, the detective's pale chest glowed in the flickering light. John looked up to see Sherlock's dark eyes devouring him, it seemed as if the lights flashed from the detective's eye.

John sucked at Sherlock's neck leaving a bruise; he sucked at Sherlock's Adam's apple. His hands found and began to rub Sherlock's erection. Sherlock could not stifle his groan, and he thrust himself into the soldier's hands. John unfastened Sherlock's trousers, and pulled down his trousers and his silk pants, freeing him. John stared at his lover in the fading flashes of train's light.

It was all happening so fast; sparked by the fear and adrenaline and fueled by months of hopeless longing. John was making love to another man, to Sherlock Holmes. It was so much more than John had imagined. He was so aroused that it was becoming painful.

Somehow, Sherlock knew; long thin hands touched John through his pants, simultaneously relieving the pain and building it up.

"God, oh God…SHerlk," he moaned. He began to buck against those hands. With one hand, Sherlock lowered John's pants and brought their erections together. He stroked them both; John brought his hand down to join in the caresses.

They rutted together in the pitch black of the tunnel, burning skin against scorching skin. John fought for control but his body took over when Sherlock's moan rumbled deep in the soldier's chest. John threw his head back again; a keening sound escaped his mouth, as he climaxed into their joined hands. Another train was passing, and Sherlock watched as John thrust explosively, his cries lost in the roar of the train. The vision drove Sherlock to his climax, and his deep-throated groan filled the tunnel, echoing after the train.

John watched Sherlock's climax though the strobe of shuddering lights and roaring like the sound of battle. His head spun and his legs shook. He sank slowly to his knees. Without John to support him, Sherlock followed him down to the tunnel floor, straddling his kneeling partner. He reached around and clutched his blogger close.

"John," Sherlock murmured. He rubbed his cheek into the other man's hair.

"Sh'lock, Um. Hummm." It was all John could manage at first. He had to concentrate just to breath. He raised his head and nuzzled the long, long neck of the man kneeling up against him. "Sh'lock, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock made a small, breathless noise and buried his face in John's hair: it smelled of sweat and lemons and musk.

They clung to each other. Another train passed in the endless night.

**A/N** I warned you about the smut. I did try for tasteful smut if there is such a thing. I do think that physical expression of love is an inevitable human activity. Thanks to all my reviewers (Please let me know if I overstepped any boundaries. Your comments/criticisms are my guides.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**A/N** This is a re-edited version of Chapter 7. Other than adding commas and semi-colons and correcting typos, it is the same chapter 7 that I posted earlier today. I hope that I have corrected most of the errors, but anyone who finds some should let me know. I can't improve without your input. Thank you to all of you who take the time to review; I love to hear from you.

**Warning **Threats of violence, references to adult themes and references to past child abuse.

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to any thing Sherlock.

_**Previously**__- …He raised his head and nuzzled the long, long neck of the man kneeling up against him. "Sh'lock, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock made a small, breathless noise and buried his face in John's hair: it smelled of sweat and lemons and musk._

_They clung to each other. Another train passed in the endless night. _

They fumbled in the dark, pulling each other to a stand and began to dress themselves. Sherlock could hear John's breathing and rustling as he pulled up his jeans. He couldn't see John; visual data was unavailable. What did John think? How did he feel?

Identity Crisis 101: Two weeks ago I was a boring heterosexual doctor with an unresolved attraction to my much more exciting and interesting flatmate. Tonight, or maybe it's today-doesn't matter, John, please proceed with your identity crisis-Tonight I am a soldier who has just abandoned his post to run off with his male, his male what?…Lover? Boyfriend? Convenient sex object? One-nighter? How the hell do I even ask?

OK, get a grip Watson; I've had sex lots of times, with lots of people, OK, lots of women. I never agonized about it afterward. Why am I agonizing over this one? What the hell does Sherlock think of me now? Is it all over between us, now that the genie is out of the bag, or in this case, out of the pants?

John began to giggle uncontrollably.

Not good. John is giggling nervously. When John said love, that did not necessarily include physical intimacy. I forced myself on John when he was vulnerable; now he will pull away. Now John will leave me.

John spoke aloud, "Another train is coming, Sherlock." John's mind continued to race uncontrolled. I told you that I loved you, but do you love me at all? Can you care about me, not as an assistant, but as a companion? Does is even matter? "I definitely hear a train coming." repeated John.

John's internal monologue persisted. It doesn't matter; I'll stay as long as he'll let me. I'll be as much as he'll let me be. I can't stop myself. How pathetic, I don't even want to stop myself.

Another train roared past, echoing the pounding of Sherlock's heartbeat. In the dim, flashing light he saw John's face, wide-eyed and desperate. John involuntarily raised his hand toward Sherlock. The hungry dark engulfed them again.

"I told you; it was a train," said John. Inside he thought, I could make this work, if only I knew where I stood with him. "I don't know where I stand." John spoke aloud.

A question, that was something that Sherlock could handle, a simple, fact-based question with no emotional strings to trip him up. "That's easy, John, you are in an abandoned access tunnel in the New York City subway system. We will exit into a warehouse district, where we shall acquire transportation. From there we…"

"You know what, Sherlock, forget the question," John swallowed nervously, "I just, you should know that…Jesus Christ! A giant rat just ran across my foot. It was huge! It's probably a genetic mutant or something. Good God, there could be hundreds of them, they…"

"John Watson, it was just a rat. They don't eat people," said Sherlock.

"That's what you think. Where's the torch, Sherlock?" asked John. He reached out for Sherlock's arm.

"I dropped it in the tube, when the first train passed," answered Sherlock.

"Oh no," muttered John. His left hand trembled just a bit. He was sure Sherlock wouldn't notice, not in the dark.

"John, we're fine. I've been here before, and I know exactly where we're going," stated the consulting detective, smoothing down his Belstaff coat and running his hand through his curls.

"Sure, sure, just like you knew exactly when the next train was due," complained John. "I'm sorry to state the obvious, but it's dark in here. I was just attacked by a rat. There are definitely rats in here. I felt cobwebs too."

John was clearly stressed, but why? Sherlock could not continue without more data. He grasped John's arms and noted the tremor. He could easily feel his doctor's pulse pounding. This is not arousal, not so soon after that. Sherlock still felt exultation fighting against shame when he thought of his blogger pressed up against the wall. Perhaps JOhn is ashamed or angry. John has reached out to me twice; he's not turning away, so not shame. He's not clenching his fists, nor is he trying to punch me. He's afraid?

"John, does the dark bother you?" asked Sherlock.

"No of course not. I'm a bit too old to be afraid of the dark," snapped John. "But you know lots of people would be uncomfortable in a dark, wet tunnel full of rats and black widow spiders. Fortunately, I'm a soldier and can handle uncomfortable situations."

Fear, then, thought Sherlock. "Good. Glad to hear it. Take my hand. We have to walk in the dark for a while," said Sherlock.

"Maybe we should just follow the train track," suggested John, "We could make a run back to the platform."

"No, it's rush hour; the trains are more frequent and so, it is much too dangerous," said Sherlock firmly.

"But if we're fast and careful…" persisted the doctor.

"No John, don't be an idiot. Besides the track will not take us anywhere that we need to go," stated the detective.

The detective grabbed John's much smaller hand; he did not comment on the tremor. Sherlock led the way, his left hand feeling the wall and his right hand held tightly by John.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph." muttered John in the dark.

A few minutes later John said, "I think something is crawling up my leg, Sherlock. I bet it's a spider. I hope it's not a black widow spider... It could be a flea from the rat. I'll probably get the bubonic plague. I can't remember the incubation period for the plague. Do you know the incubation period for the bubonic plague?"

"Bubonic plague, so-called for the painful, swollen and hemorrhagic regional lymphadenitis, is caused by infection with Yersinia pestis. When spread by the bite of an infected rat flea, the incubation period is 2-6 days. Untreated, there is a 50-60% mortality rate due to septicemia and involvement of the liver, spleen and lungs…"

"You know what Sherlock? Not helping," snapped the doctor. The dark pressed in on John, slowly smothering him. It had substance, weight. John swallowed with difficulty. It was hard to breathe. "I don't think there's enough oxygen. Do you? Do you think there's enough oxygen, Sherlock?"

"There's a nice breeze JOhn, plenty of oxygen,"sighed Sherlock. John was seriously malfunctioning. Sherlock could not determine the proximal cause but certainly the dark tunnel was exacerbating the situation. He continued to walk as quickly as possible without crashing into a wall or tripping over debris. He posted a large note to himself in his mind palace. Obtain pocket torches, ASAP, make that four pocket torches and a lighter.

"No John, I do not think that there are any noxious gases in here either," said the detective.

Oh God, he's reading my mind, the arrogant dick. Now he'll know everything. I have to think about something else, tea, yes, tea and scones.

After walking for at least ten days in the choking, fetid darkness, John heard a faint swishing sound. Were those squeaks too? He definitely felt something alien touch his hair. "Bats. Those were bats. What if they're rabid?" asked John. Shite, his voice squeaked like a bat.

"Yes, John, but they're gone," sighed Sherlock again. "John, I hope you don't have claustrophobia?"

"Of course I don't. I am a soldier," said John, who was panting lightly.

"John," said Sherlock, trying to distract his doctor with humor, "were you ever locked in a dark room or closet…"

"Yes. How did you? Never mind, I don't want to talk about it. Nor do I want to talk about the cave-in or the rats," yelled John in a high-pitched voice."And stop reading my mind."

Sherlock's mouth moved silently repeating and memorizing John's response. Yes? His John was locked in closets? What cave in? No, no, no. His mind rebelled, not John! I will kill them; whoever did that to John will suffer.

Sherlock stopped and grabbed John by his shoulders; "I wish you would have shared these things with me John. It does matter."

"I, well … It's not really the sort of thing that comes up in conversation Sherlock. You don' sit around with your best mate and say, 'Oh well it looks like rain and by the way, I used to spend my evenings locked in closets!' Just forget about it; I forgot about it," snapped John. "Water under the bridge. It's all fine now."

John was clearly not fine, but the detective did not know how to help his blogger. Emotions and feelings were definitely not his area, yet. More research was required. Another note was posted. Unable to come up with a satisfactory response, Sherlock began to pull John along more quickly, his left hand outstretched to feel the walls the dusty, sticky walls.

"So the fear of the dark, rats, spiders, bats…" Sherlock muttered to himself.

"No," snapped the doctor, "No, no, no only dark underground tunnels. And maybe locked closets. And not spiders, unless they are black widow spiders. Anyway, it's normal to be afraid of black widow spiders. I suppose you're never afraid of anything, Mr. Perfect," snapped John.

Sherlock smiled faintly, an angry John was better than a frightened John. Perhaps the anger would even help John, at least for now.

"Oh for heaven's sake, John, I suppose you don't like bats either," said Sherlock, deliberately goading his blogger further.

"Oh yes, love them in fact. D'ya know why, 'cause I must have bats in my belfry to let you lead me into this death trap," charged John. "You know most people don't like black widow spiders. It's perfectly normal. Or snakes, I mean poisonous snakes, do you like poisonous snakes, Sherlock?"

"I don't really think about them much, John, except when they impact on a case. Do they bother you?" asked the detective smiling sadly in the Stygian black of the tunnel.

"No they don't. The ones who did bother me, I killed. I killed them, and I ate them," said JOhn vehemently. "I ate snakes several times in Afghanistan. I can grill them, bake them and stir-fry them. I recommend stir-frying snake with ginger and garlic. Tastes like chicken. I bet you never shot and ate a snake, Sherlock Holmes," muttered the blogger.

"Really, you ate snake, more than once?"

"Really. Tastes like chicken."

"And you shot them up close?"

"Up close and at a distance. For your information, I am a crack shot," bragged the soldier. "They were poisonous, and they were threatening someone," said John matter-of-factly. "I wouldn't shoot a snake unless it was threatening someone, Sherlock. Or something. Once it was my mule, and I shot the snake to save my mule, from 30 meters away. Maybe 40 meters."

"You astonish me, John," said Sherlock.

"See, if you're outside you can see threats like snakes, but when you're trapped in dark tunnels and closets with black widow spiders, you're doomed. They sneak up on you and bam! That's all she wrote!" said John angrily. He shook their clasped hands once for effect.

"Look, John, we're almost out of here. There's light ahead. Now, keep your voice down, there could be someone up there," said Sherlock.

John finally loosed his vice-like grip on Sherlock's hand, and shielded his eyes from the seeming bright light.

"I don't see anyone; do you?" asked John.

They cautiously approached a crumbling foundation. After the dark, the dim filtered light seemed blinding. Sherlock impatiently drummed his fingers against the wall while he waited for his eyes to readjust to daylight.

Now that they had survived the long dark of the tunnel of doom, the warring emotions once again assailed John's mind. He was elated by his new intimacy with his handsome flat mate/lover. He dreaded the subsequent rejection by said lover/lover. Of course, it was high-time to deal with the 'I'm not gay" bit too.

And, oh yeah, he was technically a deserter for leaving the CIA team against orders, and he still had to find a nuclear device somewhere in South Asia.

Obviously the last two problems were by far the most important. It was critical that he concentrate on the mission. He focused on the next step of his escape for at least thirty seconds.

John returned to the mind consuming dilemma of 'what does Sherlock expect from me now?" "Um, Sherlock, about what happened in the tunnel…" began the blogger doggedly.

"Never mind, John, it doesn't matter. It means nothing," said Sherlock very preoccupied with the next step of their escape. He squinted as he looked out into the street too soon, making his eyes water.

"Well, it wasn't nothing to me," croaked John, sucker punched. His lips pressed together so tight that they disappeared. He stood at parade rest, and stared at roof of the abandoned substation. I just made love to a madman who says it means nothing. Right. This is insane. He is making me crazy. I do not have tears in my eyes. I will not have any tears at all ever. This is ridiculous. I will think about spiders, black widow spiders, lots of black widow spiders.

The street was filled with old warehouses and an abandoned hotel. The bar across the street appeared to be closed and the two shops on the street looked deserted. There were a few parked cars, mostly older; one was stripped of its tires. A single truck drove slowly down the street. This part of the city seemed devoid of life. The prearranged transport was missing.

"John I am concerned that my arrangements have failed, and our transportation out of the city is missing," said Sherlock. He waited in vain for an answer. John Watson was staring intently at the ceiling and biting his lip. This was annoying; Sherlock disliked being ignored. The lip biting was also distracting.

"John!" snapped Sherlock.

"What? What did I do now? What? What?" asked John.

"I said that we're lacking transport. Why on earth are you so deep in thought? Are you still upset about the tunnel? Surely you do not imagine that I think any less of you because you were uncomfortable in the tunnel. Honestly, John, even I have things that bother me. I don't like people crowding me for instance. I don't like parties. I'm not particularly fond of spiders either."

"Oh! Oh! Well, I thought…when you said 'never mind'…I thought that you meant…Um. Right. Well, I'll be sure to keep you away from crowded parties, um parties with spiders," stuttered John, whose face was now a brilliant red.

Sherlock stared sideways at his blogger. The detective's eyes narrowed in concentration. John's hands were clenched and his forehead was creased with worry. What was wrong with his blogger now?

"Um speaking of parties and spiders, I think I was bit by a spider in the tunnel when we, you and I, were together and that reminds me that I think I should just mention it once because I don't want to um…" John's speech stuttered into an embarrassed silence. "Sorry, I forgot what I needed to say. Give me a second."

Oh! John is upset because, because of what I did. What if he regrets it? We never actually discussed sex. He's always been straight, and I didn't think… I acted without thinking. I took advantage of my best friend when he was frightened and vulnerable.

"John?" Sherlock said, his voice uncharacteristically broken. He tried to force his voice back to its usual, nonchalant tone. "John, are you… I mean. I should apologize. John in the tunnel, I took advantage of you…"

"NO," said John pursing his lips and shaking his head. "How could you take advantage…No. I'm a grown man. I really just wanted to know if you wanted to consider us, a thing, you know. And anyway, I thought I made myself clear, about how I feel about you. I love you, and that includes wanting to, um, well, have sex sometimes, maybe. If you want, but it's fine if you don't want to. Anymore that is." John trailed off. He couldn't sort out the words that he needed to say. John fought off the urge to bang his head into the wall once or twice.

"Well of course I want to, don't be tedious John. I just want to make sure that we are still alright together," said Sherlock.

"Well, yes then. We're alright. I'm better than alright, if you must know," said John. Say it, just say it, he thought. "That was the most incredible sex I've ever had. Nothing else even comes close."

Sherlock shot his blogger a side-glance. As impossible as it seemed, John was serious; he was not making fun. Sherlock checked the street again. "Well, I thought I should just make sure. I had planned for the possibility of sex, but I had planned something more fitting for our first time."

"Wait, you planned for us to make love?" asked John incredulous.

"Obviously, although I believe that I said that I planned for the possibility of sex. I was not entirely certain of your inclinations, John. I had several possible scenarios based on my observations of your preferences and my research. They did not include ravishing you in a dark, frightening train tunnel. Therefore, I apologize. It was not at all romantic, and I assume that you would have prefered something more typically romantic."

"No, not really. I don't really see you as the romantic type Sherlock, or myself to be honest. Um, and it was more than a bit wonderful, as I said. Of course, if you want romance, I know how to do that too. Um. I think, however, that I prefer our way better, even if it was a bit, um dark and spidery." John bit his lip. Romance? Spidery? I feel like an idiot. I am an idiot.

"I am hardly likely to turn into a Romeo. But nor will I be leading you into any tunnels again in the near future," Sherlock reviewed his memories of the tunnel, the wall sex, the wall sex with John, who threw his head back and screamed for Sherlock. The detective smirked. "Yes, well some aspects of our encounter may bear repetition." Bringing John to his knees certainly bears repetition. "I view it, with your permission, as a beginning John. I have indeed made plans. I have a great many plans which I think you'll find stimulating," said Sherlock his confidence returning.

"What plans? You have lots of plans?" asked John.

"Obviously, I would have plans and protocols. I have already reminded you once today that I'm obsessive, John. When I work a case, I give it my full attention. Surely you haven't forgotten that?" John bit his lip but nodded yes. "Well then, if you consider yourself a case, you will understand that I would not enter into a relationship with my only friend without detailed plans on how to please him and ensure his happiness. Naturally, I would not want to risk my only relationship. Of course, I have studied and researched the topic fully, to maximize the potential for its success."

"Of course," said John, staring at the detective with wide blue eyes.

"While there is room for spontaneity, as occurred in the tunnel and which was certainly very satisfactory." Oh yes, very satisfactory-kissing John's lips, and behind his ears and his neck, and John falling to his knees because I touched him-very, very satisfactory.

"It is nevertheless essential to have protocols and guidelines. I can not risk failure. No, your case is of paramount importance and one which will hopefully last, um, indefinitely." Sherlock paused to glance from under his lashes at John. No recoil or disgust noted so far. "So you will find that I spend no small amount of time studying you and creating situations that will be mutually beneficial to us both."

"Now I assume you will understand that the Work will continue, after this mission of yours is successfully completed, of course. The Work will remain central to my life, but as you are central to the Work, you will be central to my life during cases, but during a case I will be concentrating on the Work as usual. Between cases you alone will be my center, my focus as it were. This is when you will naturally receive the bulk of my attention which will include the plans that I mentioned, indeed I will wish to perform experiments….You understand….The Work will always be secondary in that case….. …NO one else could ever…Blah Blah …..…Blah Blah."

John lost track of Sherlock's explanations somewhere after being central to the Work (surely that should be taken as a great compliment). This was no doubt the closest that Sherlock would ever come to admitting affection for John. John was happy, no thrilled. He wasn't about to be rejected. Sherlock wanted John as a companion _indefinitely_. Today was John Watson's lucky day; let's not forget those _plans_ and _mutually beneficial situations_. And those plans might just involve wall sex again, without the stupid dark tunnels of doom. John imagined wall sex, right here and now. Shoving that babbling detective up against the wall and snogging him until he stopped blithering,

"Blah,Blah it would be fortuitous…blah, blah, blah," Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome continued to babble.

Sherlock paused; John's eyes had turned to stare up at the detective intently, the whites under his dilated pupils gleaming hungrily. John's mouth parted slightly, and his tongue ran over his lip.

"John. John Watson! John Hamish Watson, are you experiencing a petit mal seizure?" snapped the detective.

"What? Seizure? No!" John snapped out of it. He swallowed again and tried to focus. "I am a case, with protocols? Are they written out?" stuttered John.

"Don't be an idiot John. Why would I write them out? I have a nearly perfect memory, and they are stored conveniently in my mind palace. Actually in your wing of my mind palace…."

"My wing?"

"John, you are merely repeating whatever I say. It is very dull. Did you perhaps hit your head in the tunnels?" asked the detective.

"Tunnels?" John repeated. He saw the dark eyebrows lower further. "Um no, no. Actually, yes, I did but not that hard. I was hard..."

SHITE I did not say that, thought John. "I'm fine. Good. Yes, everything's fine." John took a deep breath to clear the cobwebs from his mind, probably black widow spider cobwebs, he thought with a scowl.

"John? When was the last time you slept?" asked the detective slowly.

"I don't need sleep. I'm fine. I got an hour or two the other night, so I'm good," John paused. Those icy blue eyes were burning a hole into him. "I'm good. How're you?" John flashed a fake smile.

Sherlock frowned slightly; John evidently required sleep, sooner rather than later.

One thought filled John's mind. All that blithering surely translated into 'Sherlock likes John'. The soldiers face cleared, and he smiled to himself.

As John relaxed, the detective returned his attention to the derelict neighborhood.

His blogger joined the detective in looking at the nearly empty street. "That's Ahsan," said John suddenly.

"Where? I don't see him." Sherlock strained his eyes to see.

"No down the street." John stepped out into the street pointing. "Do you know him?" John waved at the distant taxi driver who waved back enthusiastically.

A dark van pulled around the corner. It stopped, the side door slid open and two men reached for John. John slammed his fist into the gut of the first man who fell out on top of John. Sherlock rushed forward; he kicked the man on top of John in the head, and tasered the man inside the van.

A huge man, with massive arms, exploded from the front of the van. Sherlock threw a punch that rebounded off the man's muscle-bound abdomen. Growling, he picked up Sherlock and threw him. Sherlock smashed against a car like a rag doll; he slid slowly to the ground. The balding giant reached for John and yanked him out from under the unconscious attacker. He flipped John over and found a muzzle pointing in his face.

"Give me an excuse, any excuse," said John, around gritted teeth. He eyes flitted over to Sherlock then returned to the giant; his finger tightened on the trigger.

"Sherlock! Can you hear me?" John fought against the panic. "Sherlock! Answer me!"

"Joohnn," moaned the detective. John spared another glance and saw Sherlock slowly moving his arms.

A car sped up and stopped.

"Oh my God, oh my God. John Watson, will you shoot him? And 006, is he hurt?" asked Ahsan breathlessly.

'Listen to me, Ahsan. Will you help us?" asked John. His eyes never moved off the giant. The huge man moved his left arm. John whipped the gun down and fired into the man's foot. The man screamed, as John brought the muzzle back up.

"John?" called Sherlock sharply.

"Oh my God. Oh my God, yes, yes I'll help you. Yes of course." muttered Ahsan.

"Ahsan, keep an eye on those other two; tell me if they move. Now take off your belt," ordered John. Through his thick lips the huge man whimpered in some outlandish language, Polish? Russian? "Now tie up his hands, make it tight. You're doing fine Ahsan" John's eyes flicked from the giant, to his sleeping beauties to Sherlock who was holding his head, the hand covered with blood. Blood, Sherlock, St. Bart's, the Fall, JOhn stifled a groan. "OK, now, please go and check Sherlock, um 006? Tell me where he's hurt."

John pressed the gun tight against the giant's head. John shoved him up against the van so that he could watch the unconscious attackers at the same time. John checked the giant's pockets and took out a gun, a magazine and a pocketknife. John shoved them into his pockets. "Ahsan, talk to me!" ordered the army captain.

"He's bleeding from the back of his head. A cut the size of my finger. I put my scarf on it, and I am pushing on it…"

"Shut up. Ahsan, I'm fine," snapped the detective. "John the man is speaking Russian. He says he wants to live. He said he was paid ten thousand dollars to bring you to a warehouse in Brooklyn," said Sherlock. He grimaced from the pain.

"Ahsan stop pushing on it" barked the detective.

"Ahsan, I am a doctor and a captain in the British Army and I greatly outrank 006. Keep the pressure on the wound. If the man tries to stand, sit on him. Who? Who wants me for ten thousand dollars? Do you want me to take his wallet Sherlock?" John kept his focus on the huge man and his semi-conscious comrades. He also scanned the street and surrounding rooftops automatically, searching for additional threats. "I'm getting edgy! Someone answer me!" demanded the soldier.

"He said Dimitri wants you, just you. He said there's a card in his wallet." Sherlock sighed. John kept looking at the street and surrounding buildings. "Well get the wallet and throw it over here, Captain Watson," spat Sherlock.

John tossed the wallet over to Sherlock and made the huge man sit down. "Oh stop whining, I bet I didn't even hit your foot. John slid the man's shoe off.

"John, I have everything I need. Stop playing doctor. I am going to stand up…"

"Ahsan put our patient into your taxi. Sherlock, keep the pressure on your wound. Go on, move it you two," said the soldier.

He continued talking to the giant, "See, it barely grazed your foot." Now his voice hardened, "I don't want to ever see you again. Do you understand me?" the man nodded.

"John, get your testosterone under control; stop making threats, and get into the taxi!" demanded Sherlock.

"Good, because if I see you again; I will kill you. I suggest you all beat it before the fuzz gets here. Capiche?" said John.

John slid into the taxi next to Sherlock. "Ahsan, would you please drive like Miami Vice, before the fuzz gets here?" asked John.

The taxi roared down the street.

The doctor turned to the outraged detective, "Let me see your head, Sherlock?" asked John.

"Capiche? Really John? Capiche?" asked Sherlock through his clenched jaw.

John knelt on the back seat, examining his detective, "Simple laceration, not much contusion. Bled a lot, but that's to be expected. We'll get you to the A and E, I mean ER and get x-rays…"

"Don't be an idiot. I cannot go to the A and E or ER or whatever. We were just involved in a violent altercation with someone hired by the Russian mafia. I learned of Dimitri when I was here after I died." The speeding car swerved violently. "Ahsan, when I say died…"

"Sorry, I do in fact outrank you in so many ways," interrupted John. "I'm the Army Officer, I'm the Captain, I'm the doctor and it's my mission, my case, and so my decision. You need stitches, and an x-ray is not a bad idea. So we're going to the ER," said Captain Watson in his no-nonsense, officer's voice. "Hold your hand over the wound, Sherlock. I need to examine the rest of you. Hold still, I'm trying to check your neck."

"If we go to the A and E, you will be captured again, and this time you won't escape so easily. That's assuming that Dimitri doesn't get you first," snarled Sherlock.

"I don't care. Your health is more important," snapped John.

"I've had worse. Good God, John, you've stitched me up more than a dozen times," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock, your head is bleeding. You have blood all over your face," John dropped his ashen face in front of the detectives. He continued through gritted teeth. "You may not understand it, but this is difficult for me. Are you at all familiar with the concept of flashbacks? This is not just a laceration Sherlock. _This is St. Bart's all over again_." John took a shuddering breath and returned to the examination. He focused on his ingrained medical protocols. "Does your back hurt; how about your ribs?"

"John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this hurts you, but I still cannot go to the A and E. It is too dangerous," said the detective quietly.

"I have no sutures, no x-rays no equipment, none, nothing, nada. You will be better off in the ER," said John with finality.

"Unless he's an undocumented alien," added Ahsan.

Sherlock slowly smiled. He turned triumphantly towards his so-called superior officer. "Ahsan is right, as an undocumented alien I will be subjected to imprisonment and deportation. I'll be lucky to receive medical care at all. But you know best. You are the Captain," he smirked despite the pain in his head.

"How do I know you're illegal? You surely came on your passport," Captain Watson massaged his own forehead, fighting a rear guard action.

"What? And let my brother keep abreast of all my movements? Check my wallet John. You'll find my ID is in the name of Sigerson, which I used after I died."

The car swerved again.

"Ahsan, he didn't really die. He pretended to die, right in front of his best friend, and stayed that way to chase after criminals. Everyone thought he was dead. Even his best friend thought he was dead. His best friend just had to mourn and try to live some semblance of a life while 006 got on with things. A few other, lucky, trusted people knew of course…"

"We have been through this a dozen times at least," snapped Sherlock.

"Well I am not done with it! So there!" shouted John.

"This is better than the Osbourne's. You guys should be reality TV," Ahsan laughed happily. "I know; I will take you to my bachelor pad, and then Captain 009 will decide what to do with the head bleeding. And then 006 will apologize for pretending death to his best friend so then he can be done with it. Then you can get back to arguing how to get away from Russian Mafia and Men-in-Black who will be looking still for Captain 009. Yes! How is that for a plan?"

Sherlock fell onto the doctor as the taxi turned sharply, wheels screeching. He quickly pulled himself upright, glaring at John.

"It works for me," muttered John.

"Seems to be a sensible suggestion," said Sherlock looking cool and aloof despite the scarf pressed against the back of his head.

"Um, Ahsan, will you please slow down now. We don't want to alert the fuzz. And thank you, we will take 006 to your apartment," said John with great dignity.

"What are Osbourn's?" whispered Sherlock still irritated.

"I have no idea what Osbourne's are? How's your head feel," asked John.

"It would be fine if you'd leave it alone. It only hurts when you push on it. And the fuzz? The fuzz? Why are you talking like that?" whispered Sherlock as he glared at his blogger out of the corner of his eye.

"We're in America, and that's how they talk. Capiche?" replied John staring straight ahead.

"Dear God, what has gotten into your tiny, little mind?" barked the detective.

"Perhaps I was bitten by a brown recluse spider, and I'm suffering from the effects of its venom," said John venomously. He gently removed the scarf and checked the wound, which was only seeping a bit now.

"I thought they were black widow spiders," said Sherlock his jaw clenching again.

"The brown recluse spider is also very poisonous; and it also lives in New York City. I learned all about poisonous spiders on cable telly," snarled the soldier. He carefully pressed the scarf back on Sherlock's head wound.

"Idiot, you are making it worse. You are making it hurt on purpose," complained the detective. "Why can't you just leave it be."

"I know it hurts, but I have to keep pressure on it. Soon we'll be able to fix it and put ice on it, and it won't hurt so much. You can even have some paracetamol for the pain," said the doctor with his best bedside manner.

"I'll need something stronger than paracetamol," whined Sherlock. He leaned against the side of the cab weakly and fluttered his eyes. He allowed himself a pout. The pout always worked, thought the manipulative detective.

"Well you won't get it from this doctor. I may be an idiot, but I know your history Sherlock. No drugs. Capiche?" said John, a bit testily.

Sherlock sat up and glared daggers at his traitorous doctor.

"Oh my God, this is much better than reality TV. I can't wait to introduce you to my mother. She will love this; it's very wonderful indeed. And wait till I tell her about the shoot out. Captain 009 nearly killed the Russian gangbanger and saved the life of 006," Ahsan was thrilled.

"I hate you," said Sherlock coldly to his blogger.

"Right back at you, dude," hissed John, his dark eyes narrowed in wrath.

At the same time, John put his hand on Sherlock's thigh caressing it gently. Sherlock took the hand in his and held it securely; his glacial eyes slowly began to defrost.

The taxi ran a red-light. A bus narrowly missed hitting the taxi and honked. John let go of Sherlock's wound briefly in order to flip his middle finger at the bus. Sherlock tilted his head; then mimicked the gesture at the bus. Their other hands remained tightly clasped in Sherlock's lap.

**A/N** Thank you to everyone who has read this. I would like to especially thank all of you who have left reviews and comments. I take your suggestions seriously and try to incorporate them into my writing. You have all had a major influence on me. Your encouragement is priceless.

The next chapter has been completed in my mind but not yet written. I hope to update within a week.

Apparently, there are many abandoned sections of subway in New York City although I have only read about them on the Internet. I think it would be fascinating to visit them, but I might worry about rats and spiders…


	8. Chapter 8

**Warning **References to past child abuse/neglect. Childhood bullying and children/teens smoking/drinking.

**Disclaimer **Of course I don't own the right to anything Sherlock.

**Chapter 8**

"John, you're an idiot. You cannot go traipsing about New York City. At the very least the CIA and the Russian Mafia want you. My God, it must be nice to have a tiny little brain that doesn't bother you with thinking," Sherlock paced around Ahsan's bachelor pad in the Borough of Queens.

"Oh sit down, Sherlock, before I really do call an ambulance. Look, you've started bleeding again," the doctor pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried not to lose his own temper. John led the irate detective back to the couch and pushed him down. "Now sit still, and hold this compress on your head."

John chewed his lip. Seeing the fresh blood on Sherlock's head brought back all the memories of that horrible day, the day that John watched his best friend deliberately fall to his death. John's mouth set in a grim line as he tried to force the memories away, the broken body, the dead, staring eyes, and the crimson blood on the concrete. John tried to forget the years of his own living death when he pretended to the world that he was fine and had moved on from Sherlock's death. John had hidden his broken heart. Oh God, times like this reminded John that his heart wasn't really fixed at all. John wasn't fixed. He was still broken…

"…John, are you listening to anything that I say. You're pushing down too hard, and it hurts," whined the detective.

"Sorry, I, um," John cleared his throat a couple of times. "I'm sorry; I'm trying to stop the bleeding." Bleeding, blood on the pavement…Sherlock dead. No. No, it's not real. Stop it. "Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop it."

"Stop what, John?" demanded Sherlock. "What are you talking about?"

Oh God, what am I talking about, Thought John. "Um, stop bleeding. Yes, um, I need to stop the bleeding," said John. Christ, I'm blithering again. "And I need medical supplies. I talked to my friend, Millie, and she will get them for me. I just need to meet up with her…"

"And I told you that it is too dangerous for you to step outside this building," said the detective, rubbing at his wound and grimacing. "I _think_ I eliminated all the tracking devices that they tried to stick you with, but I'm sure the city is blanketed with cameras and spies. Then there's the mob looking for you."

"Look," countered the doctor. "I'll only be gone for an hour or two; I need to see Millie…"

"I understand; you need to see Millie. So the object of this exercise is for Three Continents John to meet up with another one of his old girl friends," snapped the detective. "You are angry that you can't meet up with your former conquest. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you are thinking with your glands and not your brains. I suppose she is another petite, pink, blonde who basks in the glow of your overwhelming masculinity."

"I resent that. I really resent that. I haven't thought about that at all. If I am angry, it's because you say such ridiculous things. Now, hold the damn compress on your head!" John stood straight up.

"And if you insist on using my old nickname, it's Three Continents _Watson_; get it right. I shall be here in the kitchen with my huge masculine glands and my tiny brain trying to come up with an acceptable solution to this mess," John stormed through the doorway, setting the multicolored beads flying back and forth.

Sherlock sat back. He was tired, and his head ached. And he was terrified, yes, terrified that his idiotic blogger would leave. Or worse, someone would kidnap his idiotic blogger, unless Sherlock could spirit him safely out of the city.

"And she's not tiny or pink, so there, Mr. Genius!" yelled John indignantly, after another pause.

Sherlock threw himself back into the pillows and huffed loudly. John had probably come to regret the Incident in the Subway. No doubt, John needed to reassert his heterosexuality as soon as possible with this obviously willing little, pink nurse. That would explain why John had not become more affectionate after the Incident, as had been predicted by Sherlock's extensive online research into human relationships and mating rituals.

Five minutes later, John returned. From under his lowered brow, John glared at the sulking detective. "I am going to have a talk with Ahsan. I'll be back in a few minutes, unless I see any unaccompanied women because then I'll probably have to flirt with them given my out-of-control hormones."

"John, you can't be seen in public…"

"I am not going out in public. I am only going downstairs to Ahsan's mother's flat…"

"Apartment, John. In America, they say apartment, not flat," said Sherlock smugly. John left without saying another word, his fists clenched tight.

* * *

Ten minutes later, John returned to the flat or apartment, or whatever the bloody American's called it. He was only somewhat calmer as he opened the door to walk into the sitting room. Wait a minute; thought John, as he froze in the doorway thinking; we're in Ahsan's American bachelor pad, so it's called a living room not a sitting room.

Sherlock Holmes was stretched out on the couch; the wound dressing sitting loosely over the cut on his head. The compress had fallen to the floor. The detective turned to scowl at his friend; Sherlock's eyes were a cold, steely grey.

"Well, what is it, John? Don't just stand there," growled the detective irritably. He was bored; his head hurt, and his blogger had ignored him, when he wasn't yelling at Sherlock. Then too, there was the issue with his old girlfriend, Millie.

"Sorry, I was thinking," said the doctor.

"Well, don't. You're not very good at it."

"Thank you, Mr. Congeniality," muttered John. However, he really couldn't stay angry with his best friend, especially not when Sherlock was hurting. "Here, Sherlock, put this ice on your head," said John, producing a plastic bag full of chipped ice. "Ahsan got it for me. Did you know that his mother owns the building..."

"No.! I don't want any ice! It's too cold, and it will make it hurt even more," Sherlock snapped. The great detective rolled onto his side, away from his mean and annoying doctor.

The mean doctor checked the wound and found that the bleeding had subsided again. Taking a deep calming breath, John covered the wound. He gently set the bag of chopped ice on Sherlock's head, smoothing the unruly curls over the pale skin of his forehead, "Leave the ice on your head, Sherlock. It really will help."

"My head aches, and you've given me nothing but paracetamol and stupid ice. And I am bored. Bored. Bored. Bored." Sherlock's deep voice was raised in frustration and anger.

John lifted Sherlock's feet and sat on the sofa. For the past two hours, John had tried unsuccessfully to settle the fussing child that was his injured flat mate and (hopefully, maybe, please, please God) boyfriend. He pulled the detectives feet onto his lap and began rubbing them.

"Sherlock, I asked Ahsan to meet with Millie and pick up the supplies. He very generously agreed to go. Still, I think it's very rude to not even say hello to Millie when she's going out of her way to help," said John.

"Millie, what kind of name is that? Is she a cute little Lieutenant from your war years?" asked Sherlock with a sneer. Secretly he was ecstatic. John was staying here with him and not visiting with another old girlfriend.

"Millie is a retired US Army Colonel and an experienced field and trauma nurse. She outranked me, obviously, and she taught me a lot, when I was lucky enough to work with her in Afghanistan," said John.

"What sort of work, John? _Under_ _covers_?" asked the snarky and still jealous detective.

"Surgery, you idiot. The last time I saw her, we had just inserted a chest tube into a soldier, in the middle of an active battlefield. She was running to the chopper, holding the patient's IV bag. She was covered in blood and dust and dodging bullets. That's the sort of work we did," John snapped back. Maybe he could be angry with Sherlock, after all.

"_You_ told Ahsan that she was an old _girlfriend_," persisted Sherlock.

"Fine, yes, we dated three or four times. We had a few laughs, and then she let me down easy. If you must know, she broke up with me because I was too young for her. We've stayed friends, but I haven't seen here for oh, five years or more," finished the doctor. Despite the bickering, his strong hands continued to rub the detective's feet.

Sherlock processed this new information. If that nurse thought John was too young for her, perhaps his blogger thought Sherlock was too young for John. There was a difference of just over four years between the two men. The four years meant nothing to the detective, but what if someone with a more ordinary mind, such as John, thought that four years were significant? Then too, John had also been known to refer to Sherlock as a child, not a term used much for a potential romantic interest.

"How much older was she, John?" asked Sherlock after a long pause.

"Oh say, fifteen or twenty years…"

"What! You?" stuttered Sherlock.

"What?" asked the confused blogger.

"You were dating an old woman?"

"Shut up! She was a bit older, but she wasn't old, Sherlock. Millie is a wonderful woman. She's smart, brave and very beautiful. I was surprised when she even gave me a chance. We had a bit of fun though…"

"Fifteen or twenty years?" said Sherlock, staring at his blogger.

"You're just repeating things now, Sherlock. Don't. It's very dull," said John with a tiny, smug grin. How often had the detective thrown that repetition crap at John? "And for the record, Millie is 5'11" and not very pink or blond since she is a beautiful African-American. So your whole little pink whatever nonsense can go straight in the bin."

"There's always something. Still, you weren't put off by a fifteen year age difference?" persisted Sherlock.

"Nooo," said John drawing it out between pursed lips. "Age doesn't matter…"

"Good, then we've established that age differences of up to fifteen years are of no consequence. Nor, obviously, does height matter since she was 5'11". Sherlock looked up through his lashes; his blogger actually nodded, though he seemed a bit confused. No matter, John was often confused. Nevertheless, his blogger had effectively agreed that age and height were not important. Excellent, thought the detective, things looked better for their future romance.

Sherlock rolled onto his back, knocking the ice bag off. He steepled his fingers, thinking.

John pushed Sherlock's feet to the side and stood up to retrieve the ice. He placed the bag back on Sherlock's battered skull. The detective pouted until his doctor sat back down and began rubbing Sherlock's feet again.

"John, I cannot imagine the two of you together; she doesn't really sound like your type," began Sherlock.

"I was told we made a nice looking couple," said John, defensively. "I'm sure that we looked very smart together in our uniforms. And what is my type anyway?"

"Hush, John. I'm trying to think," said Sherlock, hiding behind his thinking pose.

John huffed but remained silent. At least the great git was lying still for now. Stubborn git should be resting. John wouldn't mind resting. John allowed hid lids to close, enjoying the close proximity of his detective and the comforting weight of his feet on John's lap.

John had almost drifted off to sleep, when the detective bolted straight up, sending the ice bag flying again.

"John, I have to get up," said Sherlock. "I have determined everything that I need to arrange our escape. There are people I need to meet with. I must complete my arrangements to smuggle you out of the city. I won't be gone long…"

"Sit down, and stay down," barked Captain Watson, startled by the abrupt awakening. "Since you have not shown any signs of a concussion so far, it is possible, just possible mind you, that you might be allowed to meet with these people tomorrow. _I_ will decide in the morning."

Dark blue eyes glared into icy blue eyes, until the detective conceded defeat and laid back down pouting.

John, using his best bedside manner said. "In the meantime, I will tell you a story."

"Then I will surely die of boredom. I never liked stories and you do tend to ramble on, John."

"When did you start smoking, Sherlock?" asked John.

The detective turned to glare at the doctor, "I was fifteen. Why?"

"Well I started smoking when I was eight. I stole the cigarettes from Harry. I thought smoking made me look cool and tough. Actually, it did, make me look sorta tough, I mean. Some of the bullies avoided me, when I started smoking. They really avoided me after I made a sling shot and learned how to use it. I tried to only hit them on their arse or their arms. It was a sort of warning. If that didn't work, or if I thought Harry might get hurt, then I let 'em have it right on the noggin," said John.

"How is Harry involved, John? I never know where you are going with your stories, and they are full of digressions not to mention unnecessary embellishments. Then again, you leave out pertinent information. I have noticed this in your blogs as well," said the detective.

"I try to make my stories interesting. I am just telling you what I was like when I was eight," the doctor stopped to rub his tired eyes. "Honestly, Sherlock, you tell stories, your way, and I'll tell mine, my way. As I was saying, the whole problem was that Harry was bullied, a lot. So, of course, I had to defend her. And since the bullies were four or five years older than me, I needed a slingshot."

"I was seldom in school except to drop Harry off and pick her up after school. I am going to digress to say that my mother was very ill with cancer from the time I was four or five so I stayed home a lot to take care of her. By the age of seven I could clean the house and cook a bit too. I also had to keep track of her medicines because she had trouble taking them properly."

"The other thing I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted, was that I practiced a lot, with the slingshot I mean, and I got pretty good. It actually worked against the bullies too, as long as I kept out of their reach and if there weren't too many of them. I got beat up a few times, but they got a lot worse. Luckily, the authorities never caught me. My teachers all said I was destined for Juvenile Hall, and I'm sorta surprised I didn't end up there."

"OK, so one day, I was out in the backyard, practicing with my latest slingshot when the shot went wide and ricocheted off a tree, an oak tree I think, and broke the neighbor's window. My neighbor charged out at me. That man was over 250 lbs, but he moved fast, and I ran in the wrong direction," said John.

"You always run in the wrong direction, John. Your poor sense of direction never ceases to astound me," said the detective waving his hand dismissively.

Irritated, John briefly pressed his lips together but then continued, "So I climbed a tree. He stood there for an hour waiting for me to come down and face the music."

"What music, John?" asked Sherlock.

"It's a saying, an idiom. Never mind. I wouldn't climb down, and he wouldn't give up. However he was willing to negotiate. He would buy the new window, and I would have to come over and help install it. I would also have to come over to do chores everyday, until he felt I had paid him back for the cost of the new window. I finally climbed down, and he brought me into his house to meet his wife. She gave me a sandwich and milk and a little bag of biscuits for later.

"And were your parents very angry? My father was always furious when I 'humiliated the family' in public," said Sherlock. John hid his surprise that Sherlock was willing to share any of his past.

"Well, yeah," John continued. "My dad never needed much excuse to fly off the handle. He yelled at me as usual because I was a 'hoodlum' and 'never thought about my poor mother' and so on. Then he tanned my backside and threw me in the closet without dinner. The joke was on him because Mrs. el-Masri had fed me earlier and I had a pocketful of broken but very delicious biscuits," said John smirking.

Sherlock felt a gnawing in his stomach. John had just said that he was beaten and thrown in the closet, like that was normal. Wasn't there was something Sherlock should do or say?

"So what did you do to earn your father's wrath? Did he yell?" asked John, changing the subject. He ran his strong hands along Sherlock's leg and kneaded his gastrocnemius muscle. The sensation was pleasantly relaxing, thought Sherlock.

"When I failed to please my father, he would convene a family meeting, usually consisting of my father, Mummy, Mycroft and myself," said the detective. "Then he would 'discuss' my failings. He was displeased when I did not get along with other children. He was embarrassed when I failed dismally at sports. He was humiliated when I failed at school, even though I explained that the teachers were idiots, and I just didn't do the boring work. I was clearly not the son my parents had wanted. After he pointed out all of my failings, I was sent to my room to consider the disappointment of my family. He did not yell or resort to physical violence. Mummy sometimes tried to smooth things over, but she generally bowed to my father's wishes. Sometimes Mycroft would intervene. My father listened to the golden boy, Mycroft," said Sherlock, with a sneer. "On the plus side, Mycroft's interventions resulted in my home laboratory and found me a boarding school where the bullying was less and the teaching was better."

"Well, I guess your father couldn't see the genius that you are. That was his problem. You're the best detective in the world. You play the violin better than people in the orchestra. You're brave and you've saved lots of people's lives. You're a genius and the smartest person I ever met," asserted John.

"Actually, Mycroft is smarter than I am," said Sherlock.

"Actually, Mycroft's an arse, a fat arse," replied John. Sherlock was forced to smile at that.

After a minute or two, John continued, "Um, anyway, that first afternoon, Mr. el-Masri and I started to work on the window. He asked me to read him some directions, and I couldn't. I couldn't read at all."

"I was eight years old and I couldn't read much more than my name and the names of my mother's med's. The school had given up on me; they were just going to hold me back again. I was alternately labeled a mental defective or a juvenile delinquent. You probably haven't noticed this, but I usually don't trust people right away," Sherlock stared at John in disbelief, as if the consulting detective would have missed John's 'trust issues'. John, of course, missed the the detective's raised eyebrows and frowning lips. "However," continued John, "for some reason, I told Mr. el-Masri all about not going to school and my mother's illness. The next day, I had to bring my schoolbooks to my neighbor's house. That day, Mr. el-Masri started tutoring me. Everyday after school, I had to do homework at their kitchen table. Mrs. el-Masri always had milk, sandwiches and biscuits for me. Sometimes, she made me a whole dinner. After the regular homework, I had to practice reading. Then I had to do some chores to payback for the window that I broke. I still missed lot of school, but in a few months I was pretty much caught up with the other kids."

"After my mother died, the el-Maris basically raised me. They laid down the law. The cigarettes had to go, bam, cold turkey. One month without cigarettes and Mr. e-Masri bought me a used bicycle. I also wasn't allowed to miss school. Mr. el-Masri never yelled or anything. He just looked very disappointed. I always tried, try to do what Mr. el-Masri would have wanted me to do. I didn't, don't want to disappoint him. He was a saint if ever there was one. His wife was pretty damn nice too," said John gruffly. He focused on a black velvet painting of Elvis. After all, soldiers don't cry.

Once again, Sherlock was at a loss. He should do something for John, but what?

"Incidentally, Mr. el-Masri taught me to box; he said he knew someone was always trying to beat me up. He said, if I was going to fight all the time, I might as well learn how to do it right. Everyone at the gym liked him, and so they were all nice to me, his so-called foster son. I got pretty good, I guess. I was able to handle bullies a lot bigger than me. Eventually, I could even handle certain adults," said John darkly. "Mr. el-Masri also drilled it into my head that I had to fight on the right side and not to pick on kids who were weaker than me, as if I'd ever do that. It was funny, this man weighed 17 or 18 stone, but he was quick on his feet. It was a year before I could even land a punch on him. He also loved to dance. He taught me to dance too."

"John, I was sent to Martial Arts classes for the same reason. My family wanted me to be able to defend myself from the bullies. I learned Judo, and then Baritsu*. I found self-defense highly effective in the end. Like you, I was also forced to learn ballroom dancing. Though it was distasteful, I was the best in the class. If you like dancing, John, I should take you to one of Mummy's soirees," said Sherlock.

John snorted, "Um, Mr. el-Masri didn't really know much about waltzing, Sherlock. I pretty sure your family would not approve of my dancing or me. Tell me something else that happened when you grew up, Sherlock."

"I didn't actually enjoy growing up, John. I deleted most of it," Sherlock's brows drew down in a scowl. He considered a moment while he stared at the ceiling. "However, as I mentioned, I was given a room near the kitchens to experiment in. There were a few pleasant times spent in my lab. It was stone and so not very flammable, which I appreciated. School was tedious, they rarely taught anything interesting. The other students were all morons. Mummy and Mycroft taught me to read when I was three. When I was eight, I was reading Shakespeare and Tolstoy. I never took care of anyone, ever. Did you really take care of your mother when you were seven years old?"

"Yes of course. I took care of her and Harry. Mother was in a lot of pain and got addicted to her meds. She was in a drug induced fog for the last couple of years. So, I kept the house clean, and I cooked, nothing fancy of course. I made sure my mom didn't overdose on her pain-killers. I made sure she ate and showered and brushed her teeth. At the very end Mrs. el-Masri helped me take care of Mother, which was a Godsend. And Harry, don't get me started. I had to protect her from the bullies and from our father. He didn't take it very well when she came out as a lesbian. Mother was already gone, so it was up to me to keep the two from killing each other. Then I had to try to keep Harry off drugs and alcohol. Well, you know how well that worked out. It wasn't a big deal. If you love someone, you take care of them," said John, patting Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock's hand were steepled in front of his face. He never took care of anyone. Perhaps because sentiments really weren't his area. But then there was John. He did protect John. Was that the same thing as taking care of him? Then there was his pet. "I did take care of a pet once," said the detective.

"You had a pet? Was it a dog or a cat?" asked John amazed, Sherlock with a puppy?

"Neither, he was a hedgehog; he was an abandoned baby when I found him. Mycroft and the gardener helped me hide him. The cook helped me prepare milk and feed him, until I learned to do it on my own. He lived for almost five years in the gardener's shed. Sometimes, actually often, I snuck him into my lab. The servants never told on me; neither did Mycroft, for some reason. I had to dig up worms and find insects for him," said Sherlock studying his flat mate. Sherlock licked his lips, "Oddly enough, I named him John."

"You named your hedgehog John? What the hell kind of name is that for a hedgehog?" muttered John.

"John, does this bother you? John was a very endearing animal. I'm sure you would have liked him," said the detective curiously.

"Oh never mind," said John pursing his lips. "Why does it always come back to hedgehogs?"

Sherlock suddenly realized that with his tousled hair and those pursed lips, John looked very much like a hedgehog.

"Who called you a hedgehog?" asked the detective.

"Oh, well. The question should be, who didn't. I'm not talking about it. I never had a pet, but I do think I will get a cat. If I do, maybe I'll name it Sherlock. If you give me any grief about hedgehogs, I will definitely name my cat Sherlock," huffed the affronted doctor.

Disgruntled and remembering all the times that other kids called him a hedgehog, John chewed on his lip.

Sherlock was almost smiling until he realized that he was awash in petty human sentiment. Ridiculous. Who cares whether I had a pet hedgehog, or whether John reminds me of hedgehogs. Sherlock drew his legs up in irritation. He had spent the last two days letting emotions govern his actions. It was worse than ridiculous. It had to stop.

"Stop scowling Sherlock, I won't get a cat if it bothers you. Ahsan will be back soon with the sutures and medicines. Try to rest for a few minutes. I need to go wake myself up, or I'll end up stitching my hand to your head." John had actually seen Sherlock pulling back into his shell. It was a bit disheartening but not surprising. Rome wasn't build in a day, thought John. The doctor left to make more tea and take a shower. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to think of stubborn, handsome detectives or stupid hedgehogs.

**A/N** sorry the updates have been delayed by real life getting in the way. John and Sherlock also made me rewrite the chapter many, many times. In fact, I had to split Chapter 8 into two chapters because it got too long. After chapter 9, we'll be back into action. I hope.

Baritsu-Wikipedia, the ultimate guide to the universe, said that Baritsu, the martial art practiced by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, is correctly called Bartitsu. But let us not be pedantic, my dears (to paraphrase one of my favorite authors, Patrick O'Brian). Baritsu, or whatever we call it, is a mixture of judo and hand to hand fighting which was to include weapons such as the walking cane which many gentlemen had at the end of the 19th century. Presumably, our 21st century Sherlock uses something else-perhaps John's cane or Mycroft's umbrella?

Thanks to all of you who have been reading this story.

A very big thanks to those who have been reviewing my work. **THANK YOU!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer **I still don't own any rights to Sherlock Holmes, or John Watson for that matter.

**Chapter 9**

Sherlock's head wound ached, and John didn't care, the heartless beast. The doctor had been gone for almost twenty-four minutes. Then, at last, Sherlock heard John puttering in the kitchen.

For the entire twenty-four minutes, Sherlock had tried to lock his ridiculous feelings up inside his Mind Palace's dungeon. But he soon realized that it was an exercise in futility.

As soon as one room was cleansed, he would find another room full of John trivia: John's facial expressions (pursed lips and concentrating was a personal Sherlock favorite alongside of the boyish smile when John was a bit not good), his favorite brand of tea (PG Tips), John's favorite jumper (the oatmeal colored, cable knit), what makes John angry (a very long list), what makes him smile (a short list, usually Sherlock related), what he tasted like when Sherlock kissed him on the beach (Scotch and tooth paste) what he tasted like in the Subway (mint, blood, a hint of beer?), all the ways that John resembled a hedgehog…Yes, eliminating John-sentiments was clearly an exercise in futility.

Seemingly, the best Sherlock could hope for was to accommodate the sentiments. Allow them free rein in John's wing of the Mind Palace and encourage them, as much as possible, to stay out of the rest of the rooms. And really, nothing John related, even sentiments, ever belonged in the dungeon.

Sherlock reluctantly reopened the dungeon door and sent all the sentiments skittering into John's wing.

After 28 minutes of his doctor's absence, the consulting detective came to a second conclusion. John should always remain as close to Sherlock as possible. While John was undoubtedly distracting; he was even more distracting when he was absent.

When John was out of sight, Sherlock had to worry about his blogger. Even now, Sherlock wondered if his blogger would burn himself making tea or whether his blogger was heterosexually pining for his former girlfriend, Millie.

Indeed, why was his blogger ignoring him for 29 minutes? Something to worry about.

"John, the pain is getting worse; it's excruciating. I think I probably have internal bleeding." Sherlock flopped back in disgust. He would die before his doctor even took notice.

"Maybe this dizziness is from all the blood that I lost. Do you think I lost that much blood? I feel quite faint, John," called out the detective, as he sat back up and fiddled with a set of nesting boxes.

"I'm sorry that it hurts, but no, you do not have internal bleeding. I'll check you out in a minute, and, no, you didn't lose that much blood," said John patiently. "Do you want some tea?"

"I do not want tea. I have had at least a liter of tea today. Contrary to popular opinion, tea is not the universal panacea," snapped the detective. "John, if I die, I still want you to have the flat. I'm leaving everything to you just like I did when I died before," Sherlock called out.

From the kitchen came a loud Bam! Followed by the tinkling sound of broken glass.

"Bloody hell. Now I've burned myself," said John, not quite so patiently.

Sherlock winced. I knew he'd manage to burn himself, thought the detective. Still, perhaps I shouldn't have brought up my faked death; that is definitely on John's 'bit not good' list.

Sherlock straightened his shirt and cleared his throat to try again. "John, I can feel the blood leaking into my brain; I haven't got that long. Don't you want to see me before the seizures start? Don't you want a chance to say goodbye?" asked the tall man on the couch, who now played with the pieces from an onyx chess set.

"Good bye!" came the impatient reply.

Sherlock rubbed his head where it was covered with a loose dressing; it really was a little bit sore. I need ice, decided the detective. He leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees; he set up the pieces to recreate a classic chess attack on the board.

"I think I need ice, John."

"John, since I'm dying, I think a powerful pain medication is truly indicated. This is inhumane. This is torture," whined the detective, as he captured the black queen in five rapid moves.

Then, he heard the doctor passing into the garishly decorated sitting room. He fell back into the colorfully embroidered pillows and threw his arm over his eyes dramatically. The black queen fell from his instantly limp fingers.

John placed a fresh bag of ice over Sherlock's wound and lifted the limp arm off the detective's face. John checked his patient's eyes with a pocket torch; perfectly normal of course, thought John.

John's warm hand gently stroked Sherlock's troubled brow. This was a definite improvement, thought the detective, relaxing. Finally, John was paying proper attention to Sherlock again.

"John?" muttered the detective weakly. "John is that you? Everything seems so dark…"

John bit his lower lip. "Don't worry, Sherlock," said John, soothingly. "I called 911 and the ambulance will be here in a couple of minutes."

Sherlock bolted upright. He knocked John's hand aside, and the ice bag once again fell to the floor, "John, don't be an idiot!" he barked. "What were you thinking? No, don't answer, obviously you were not thinking at all. I can't go to the A and E! I am using a false passport, and the CIA is surely aware of our connection, thanks to my fat brother."

"No, no, you must be delirious, Sherlock," said the doctor, his voice dripping with sympathy. He forced the pale detective back down, gently but firmly. "Poor Sherlock. You're dizzy and sick and faint. You may have internal bleeding. Don't worry, you can go the ER safely, because I called Mycroft. He's going to fix everything," Sherlock fought to stand up, his eyes wide with horror.

"In fact," added Sherlock's cruel blogger, "Mycroft said that he was coming to the US as soon as possible, to be here with you."

Sherlock gasped. Then, Sherlock fixed his blogger with a glacial glare. "Liar! My fat brother would not leave London for any reason. You lied about the ambulance too. You are making sport of my condition."

"Actually, yes," admitted John, with an evil grin. "Of course, I was a bit concerned this morning when you first got hurt. However, you've shown no signs of a concussion, and I feel fairly certain that you will pull through, somehow." John's grin faded as he stared down the affronted detective.

"You do realize that I was a fully qualified trauma surgeon with years of battle-field experience," said Captain Watson. "I do recognize malingering when I see it, Sherlock Holmes."

John's blue eyes matched his flat mates' steely glare for a minute; then, they heard someone clattering up the steps and toward the door of the apartment. The red-painted door swung open.

"John Watson," said Ahsan, smiling and carrying a large bag. "I have all the supplies from your Colonel Millie Carson. Oh boy, she is a big, beautiful woman! Just like you said, older, but hot!" Ahsan did not notice John shaking his head in warning. "Oh, she said you were the best man she ever dated excepting George. I don't know who George is. But surely he is not better than you."

John stoutly resisted the death rays shooting from his flat mate's eyes.

"And here is my mother who lives down the stairs," continued Ahsan, innocently pretending not to notice the detective's glare.

His mother, wearing a highly embroidered yellow shalwar kameez* and dupatta** brought in a covered plate. "She is excited to meet so famous a detective and his famous blogger. And she brought you cookies."

"I am pleased to meet you Mrs. Ghulam," said John, hoping in vain that his face was not as red as the scarves draped from the ceiling. "What are these?"

"Cookies are obviously biscuits, John. You really should try to pick up the American vernacular, John. You know, when in Rome and all that," said Sherlock airily, waving his arm. John bit his tongue and glared from under lowered brows.

"My mother is sorry, but she doesn't speak English," said Ahsan. Mrs. Ghulam, a tiny woman with dark, grey-streaked hair, nodded and smiled.

Sherlock smirked and greeted her in fluent Urdu. She smiled and sat to chat with the suddenly charming detective. John bit his lip again and watched suspiciously. He did not trust Sherlock when he turned on the charm.

John did not speak much Urdu, but he understood a fair amount thanks to his deployments in south Asia. So far the conversation seemed quite safe and dull, cookies, the weather, the local crime rates in Queens.

"John Watson, my mother was a nurse in Pakistan. She will be honored to help when you sew up the wound of the famous detective," said the young man, proud to assist two famous celebrities, and in Ahsan's bachelor pad no less.

John pulled Ahsan over to the corner, "Look Ahsan," said John, looking down at the rug. "I hope you realize how much I appreciate all your help. You have saved me more than once, and you have become such a good friend in only a few days. So I feel that I have to level with you; I'm not 009…"

"Oh my God, I knew that since when I realized you were the famous blogger of the famous Sherlock Holmes. But you are even better than 009.I am glad to be helping the famous crime fighting team. And yet still the CIA and Russian mafia are really after you, I have seen it. Your capture must not be allowed. I will help the famous Sherlock Holmes help you to escape so that you can finish your important army mission," said Ahsan in a rush.

John blushing furiously, managed to thank Ahsan again. Then he zeroed in on the conversation in Urdu. Sherlock was telling Mrs. Ghulam about how sensitive John was, and how the detective had to take care of him.

Which is completely ludicrous, thought John; I take care of that foolish man. John was uncertain of his Urdu vocabulary, but now it seemed that Sherlock had just compared John to a hedgehog. Impossible man. John slapped his hand over his face.

"Right, let's get started," said John, from behind his hand. Anything was better than listening to hedgehog stories in Urdu. "Ahsan, please tell your mother that I am very grateful for her offer. I can definitely use her assistance. You should probably leave the flat, I mean apartment, until we're done. It might get ugly," said John. sotto voce.

John positioned Sherlock so that he could sit in a chair and rest his head on some towels on the kitchen table.

Dr. Watson cleaned the area with betadine and then began to numb the scalp with lidocaine.

"No, no, no! That hurts, John! I need pain medication. This is torture!" whined the famous detective.

"Fine Sherlock. You win," said the exhausted doctor. "We'll skip the stitches, and let it heal by secondary intention. I'm sure the bald patch will be barely noticeable."

Mrs. Ghulam, who clearly understood English quite well, shared a sly smile with John.

"John, I only requested some pain medicine. I did not refuse to get stitches," groused the detective.

"The only pain medicine that I have is paracetamol and, for later, ibuprofen. You know that any other pain medication is quite out of the question and quite unnecessary. Now let me numb your skin up; it will feel better after the lidocaine," encouraged the doctor.

Sherlock continued muttering about human rights and Dr. Mengele until the lidocaine took effect.

Now that the wound was numb, Mrs., Ghulam thoroughly cleaned the wound. Then she and John cut the hair and shaved around the cut. They both callously ignored the vociferous and creative complaints coming from their patient.

The hard part done, John rapidly sutured it. He also slapped a couple of butterfly sutures over the cut on Sherlock's face and then rose to escort Sherlock back to the sitting, no to the living room.

Sherlock collapsed in abject misery, until Mrs. Ghulam brought out fresh tea and cookies. The detective bounced up and grabbed several of his favorite cookies. He ate them quickly between sips of tea. Then he winked at Ahsan's startled mother and flopped back down onto the couch.

John came out to check his patient. "Sherlock, don't you want a little tea, maybe just one biscuit?" asked John, smoothing Sherlock's hair.

The detective noted the disapproving looks from Mrs. Ghulam. He also noted John's tired eyes and the deep worry crease between his eyebrows.

Sherlock felt a niggling doubt. Surely it wasn't guilt? How disgustingly human. He shoved the feeling into the ugly, boring grey room in John's wing.

No good. It was guilt and it wouldn't go away. Sherlock heaved a sigh. What answer would please John best?

"Maybe I could drink a little tea, John," said Sherlock, magnanimously.

"Really? I'll go get you some fresh tea right now. I'll be right back," said John. He hurried out into the kitchen.

Sherlock smoothed his shirt then caught sight of Mrs. Ghulam. She frowned. He sat up like a chastised schoolboy and took the tea from his blogger.

"Thank you, John," he sipped the perfect cup of tea, hot, strong but not too strong with two spoonfuls of sugar. John always made perfect tea. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up in a faint yet sincere smile. "The tea is perfect, as always."

John's jaw dropped at the rare compliment: then he grinned into his own tea. John's grin was worth a little effort decided the detective. His eyes darted to the side. Mrs. Ghulam smiled and left.

Only minutes later, Ahsan ran back into the apartment, he glanced approvingly at the neat dressing on the detective's head.

"John Watson, my mother says everything is done now. She wants to feed you now. Do you want to eat, Sherlock Holmes?" said Ahsan. "Can he eat, John Watson?"

"John and I would be happy to eat with you and your mother," said the detective using his charming voice.

"I must ask John Watson. As this is a not a detecting question but a medical question, he clearly out ranks you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." said Ahsan.

Sherlock lifted his chin and brows in affront. John restrained himself from smirking or, worse yet, raising his fist in a victory pump.

Still, Sherlock probably needed to rest. "Are you sure you aren't too tired, Sherlock?" asked John.

"No, John, I am fine. I only needed a bit of your bracing tea, and now I am right as rain. In fact, maybe I could go out tonight…"

"Tomorrow, Sherlock. You can go out tomorrow," said John shaking his head. "Ahsan, please tell your mother that we will be delighted to share any meal that your mother makes."

Ahsan and his mother brought up two trays full of food, and they all sat together at the kitchen table. John loved the fresh naan, hot curry, the beef karahi and the lentils; he ate enough to please even Mrs. Ghulam. Surprisingly, Sherlock ate voluntarily, sampling both the beef and the curry. Ahsan and John drank Bud Light, which was Ahsan's favorite beer.

After dinner, Mrs. Ghulam excused herself. John, exhausted and sleep deprived, was already tipsy on just a couple of beers. He and Sherlock sat in the living room watching Ahsan dance to Pakistani Music.

"Come and join me John Watson. It is not so hard," said Ahsan laughing.

"Oh, no Ahsan. I am much too tired to dance tonight," said John smiling and sipping more Bud Light. This American beer wasn't so bad after one got used to it, thought John.

"What he means, is that he can't dance. I have never seen John dance. Actually, John, I would advise no more beer and no dancing," said Sherlock soberly.

"Silly Sherlock," said John, "I am not drunk, and certainly I can dance. Ahsan, I will need a scarf. We will show some people that they don't know everything," he winked at Ahsan. Sherlock sighed; this would be embarrassing for John. Still, Sherlock might as well enjoy the show.

"Try not to break any furniture, John," suggested the detective. He stretched his long legs out and waited for John's humiliation to begin.

John and Ahsan tied scarves low around their hips. Ahsan put on some faster music, with a rhythmic beat. Ahsan smiled, and his hips gyrated; he clapped his hands in time with the drums. John copied the slow gyrations and clapped his hands. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled tolerantly. It was just a tiny bit erotic, the way his blogger swayed.

Ahsan picked up the beat. He smiled broadly, first at John, then at Sherlock. John copied Ahsan. Then John extended his right foot; his right hip vibrated rapidly over his foot, while his arms slowly extended over his head. Ahsan, biting his lip, copied John's movements. Then, John's hips shook staccato, his arms moving slowly over his head. He shimmied forwards and backwards his hair blond hair blowing. Then his hips returned to shaking staccato. Ahsan was trying to keep up with his older friend but couldn't.

The World's Only Consulting Detective watched enthralled as his bloggers hips slowly gyrated around and around and then picked up speed. John's bare feet shuffled in an obscure pattern; his shoulders shimmied at seemingly random intervals, and his arms waved sinuously when they weren't positioned behind his head. That was definitely erotic. Did John know that it was erotic? Was John deliberately trying to entice Sherlock? Did John realize that he had succeeded?

John slowed down and tried to teach Ahsan some new steps. The two men were smiling and giggling, as Ahsan tried to shake like John. Sherlock began to feel the now familiar stirrings of jealousy. Maybe John was trying to entice the young man; after all, age meant nothing to Three Continents Watson.

However the consulting detective soon observed that John was surreptitiously watching him. When Sherlock obviously stared at John, his blogger seemed to dance faster and harder. A smile from the detective earned him a swirling John who dipped to the floor, then twirled back up with his hips firing automatically.

Yes, John was deliberately dancing for Sherlock; this was satisfactory. Was it satisfactory? No it wasn't satisfactory. John was dancing erotically, and Sherlock could do nothing about it.

John positioned himself in front of the detective, pushed his right foot forward and bent his knee while his right hip shook back and forth rapidly under the dark scarf. His entire body suddenly spiraled down and up again, then he stood in front of Sherlock for a shimmy and more gyrating. The whole process repeated with his left side.

The song ended. John downed some more Bud Light, even though his nose was already numb, a sure sign he'd had enough. He should really stop drinking this so-called American beer.

"Sherlock, is this music is too loud? Is it hurting your head?" asked John, panting a bit. He fussed over his flat mate, checking the stitches. "We should probably call it a night and let you get some rest."

The detective did not want the dancing to stop, by any means. He hastily replied, "John, I am perfectly comfortable here; it doesn't hurt at all unless I actually touch the dressing,"

"I like the music very much. And, no, I don't need any more water or tea or food," Sherlock lowered his voice, "Far be it for me to instruct you in social conventions, but you promised to teach Ahsan more of this dancing. Don't you think you should keep your promise?" He looked up innocently through his thick lashes.

John blinked. He could tell Sherlock was manipulating him, but he was too tired and too intoxicated to determine the detective's motives. Finally he gave in, "Right, if you're sure you're OK, Sherlock?"

"Certainly. Now go and dance, John. Dance as long as you'd like. Dance all night; I'm enjoying, um, the music. The music is good."

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the sofa with his hands steepled under his chin. I shall never view a scarf the same again, thought the detective. The scarf tied around John's hips almost wove a pattern as John gyrated with Ahsan. He tried to memorize John's dance steps and place them in his newly constructed ballroom in his Mind Palace.

John smiled whenever he looked up to see Sherlock watching. He rarely enjoyed the detective's undivided attention, but tonight seemed to be an exception.

John gyrated down to the floor and back up. Surely neither Ahsan nor Sherlock would suspect that his dance and his smile were all for the tall, pale man who gazed seriously at his blond blogger.

* * *

John had insisted on helping Ahsan clean up. Then, Ahsan finally went to his mother's apartment, so that the injured detective could sleep in Ahsan's bed. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for John to bring him some more wretched medicine.

John came over to the bed with a glass of water and some paracetamol, but Sherlock grabbed John by his belt pulling him closer. He placed a hand over each of John's hips, "So this was the dancing that my family won't approve of?"

"Well, it's probably not…" began John, blushing as he focused on Sherlock's hands running up and down his sides.

"No, probably not," agreed the detective, his voice rumbling low. "It would undoubtedly shock poor Mycroft. However, Mummy might appreciate it. It is after all folk dancing and obviously performed by a master," said Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled his blogger closer and closer. John stood pinned between Sherlock's knees. Every word the detective said vibrated through the doctor's body. The vibrations completely disoriented the already woozy blond. He was secretly grateful that Sherlock's knees supported him.

"Um, Sherlock, your head. You, um, need to rest. I have your pills, yes your pills and um some water," stuttered John, staring mesmerized at his flat mate's (boyfriend's?) lips.

"Fine," Sherlock held out his hand. He took the pills and then dropped them on the nightstand and placed the water next to them. "This is all your fault, John Watson."

"What? What did I do now?" asked the confused blogger. Trying to follow Sherlock's mind was always difficult, but for John it was it was especially hopeless after three Bud Lights and two, or was it three, nights with almost no sleep?

John snapped out of his reverie, to find himself straddling Sherlock's lap. Well, this is unexpected, thought John, blearily.

"_This_ is your fault, John. You have moved into my mind palace and commenced with renovations and redecorating without consulting me," complained the detective, with a smirk.

"No, um, that's ridiculous. How, ah, how is that even possible…" asked John looking up into the dilated pupils of his boyfriend, _yes_ _boyfriend._

Sherlock watched his bloggers blue eyes blow wide open with desire. This was definitely all John's fault. Look at him sitting on Sherlock's lap, trusting and yet full of lust, the beautiful, blond man.

"No, John. It's a fact. Somehow you've put your stamp on every room in my mind palace. I found your favorite jumpers in my file room. Then I found your favorite tea in my crime library. Really John, that's a bit not good. And then you constantly distract me. Today you distracted me with your girlfriend, Millie, and tonight you danced erotically. And now, now, you expect me to just go to bed?" asked Sherlock with a pout.

"Oh, oh, I think I get it now. What you mean, is that you like me and want me to kiss you?" asked John, his frown lines fading. "Why didn't you just say so?"

John leaned forward, his eyes dark. His lips parted slightly. His breath caressed Sherlock's face with warm feathers of curry spices and mint.

"I believe that that is what I just said," said the detective, raising an eyebrow.

"OK. Yeah. That's exactly what you said," John raised his hand to run his fingers along the infamous sharp cheekbone and then cupped the detective's chin. John slowly raised his lips to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock pushed his lips aggressively back against his blogger's. This was what he needed all along. He needed more John Watson. He ran his tongue along John's parted lips, and they opened willingly.

John presented him with a new taste tonight: curry, Bud Light (not really a beer according to John) and toothpaste. John must have a tooth-brushing fetish of some sort, thought Sherlock.

The World's Only Consulting Detective pulled his blogger closer. John's hips slid over Sherlock's; their chests riding up against one another. All points of contact burned to the touch, and John moaned so very softly.

Sherlock paused to savor the sound; it was a new sound to add to the library of John sounds.

John pulled away to take a breath, dizzy and euphoric. Sherlock still wanted him. Brilliant. Amazing. Extraordinary.

"John, you're saying that out loud," murmured Sherlock, into the hollow between John's clavicles.

Even Sherlock's breath burned John's skin; it was more intoxicating than all the Bud Light in Queens. Still, John didn't want to sound foolish in front of the genius.

"Sorry. I'm sorry; I can stop," whispered the blushing blogger into Sherlock's ear.

"No, it's fine," replied the detective, who proceeded to attack one of John's innocent, red ears. Then Sherlock trailed kisses down the rough, unshaven cheek of his blogger. The rough stubble was decidedly arousing, and Sherlock rubbed his cheek against it, before he returned to John's lips. How like John, rough cheeks and soft lips, the man was never really predictable, thought Sherlock. He kissed those soft, dry lips with abandon.

Sherlock pulled John's lower lip in and sucked on it. John's tongue followed and broke through to explore his lover's mouth, _yes lover_.

John took Sherlock's face in his hands and peppered his face with kisses. He continued kissing down the long, white column of Sherlock's neck before resting his head on the taller man's shoulder.

Sherlock had buried his face in John's hair, (the tousled hair was definitely hedgehog-like).

Then he realized that John had become very still and very heavy. There was a soft snore below Sherlock's ear.

"John Watson, you've fallen asleep," murmured the detective. His poor blogger had had no sleep for at least 36 hours. And to his surprise, it mattered to Sherlock. He wanted to take care of John Watson tonight.

Sherlock raised his blogger up and stretched him out on the bed. He removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket. He made sure that the formerly injured right arm was lying flat.

Then the consulting detective lay down beside his blogger and rested his head on John's chest. The rhythmic beating of John's heart lulled Sherlock to sleep.

**A/N**

*Shalwar kameez-traditional clothing worn by men and women in south Asia including Pakistan- a long shirt/tunic (kameez) and loose trousers (shalwar)

**Dupatta-a long scarf worn by women, often worn for modesty

There are some good clips of male 'belly dancers' in the Internet. It's a form of Mid-east folk dancing; the stuff I found on the Internet is mostly Egyptian. Tito Seif is one of the most famous dancers. He seems to usually wear a long robe, and his dancing is very masculine. (Of course if you Google male belly dancers you also get costumed boys. While it's all fine, it's not really how I envisioned John. I see him more masculine, like Tito and some of the other Mid-east folk dancers.)

This chapter has been rewritten at least seven times, and so I am very late in posting it. I shall make no rash promises as to when the next chapter will be posted. I do promise that I am working on it.

I very much appreciate the reviews and comments that I have received from so many people. Your reviews are hugely influential and so encouraging. **Thank you.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer**Just in case anyone got confused, I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, S. Moffat or M. Gatiss nor do I represent the BBC. Therefore, I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. Too bad for me.

**Chapter 10**

The World's Only Consulting Detective crept out of the bathroom after his shower and then crashed into his young friend, Ahsan Ghulam.

"Ah, Ahsan," said Sherlock, smoothing the front of his faded hoodie. "I will just be out for a couple of hours…"

"Oh my God, Sherlock Holmes. I am sure that that is a very bad idea. John Watson will be most very angry with you, and then with me too. He has said clearly that he hates you leaving him behind," said Ahsan, who shook his finger at the detective.

The detective retreated out of the apartment and into the main hallway.

"I saw that note," said the young Pakistani-American, his dark brown eyes narrowed. "You must not leave John Watson another bloody, damn note. He said, 'no more bloody, damn notes'. I heard him say this. You should listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I have had many American girlfriends, and I know that you must listen to your girlfriend. When they tell you don't do this, you better not do it, or they will be someone else's girlfriend."

Sherlock paused on the stairs, his head tilted as he considered Ahsan. "Surely, you don't think that John is my girlfriend?"

"Oh my God, it is most very clear. Of course he is not your girlfriend. He is your _boyfriend_, but he will not be your boyfriend for long if you keep leaving him alone with the bloody, damn notes," said Ahsan, chasing after the detective.

"Ahsan, in order to get John to South Asia without involving the CIA, MI6 or criminal elements, I need to obtain more money and new ID's. Obviously, John cannot come with me because he will be spotted and captured or worse," reasoned the detective in the entryway of the apartment building. "Furthermore, John is exhausted and needs his rest…"

"You cannot leave here alone. John Watson will be beyond most very angry if you go into danger alone again," said Ahsan, following the detective out onto the street.

"Fine, you may accompany me. And as far as John is concerned, he is frequently angry. I believe that he enjoys being angry. Anyway, he will get over it," said the tall, thin detective whose wrists stuck out of the borrowed hoodie.

Sherlock and his unwilling accomplice hurried down the street.

* * *

John finally awoke four hours later, when Mrs. Ghulam roughly shook him. She spoke urgently in Urdu, but so fast that he did not understand her. She dragged him to the window. He saw Cochrane, Mitchell and Morstan crossing the street to the Ghulam's building.

"The bloody CIA," swore John, forgetting the presence of Mrs. Ghulam in his agitation. He dry washed his shaggy face, trying to think. Two other agents were exiting another building further up the street. In Urdu, Mrs. Ghulam said that her neighbor had called to warn her about these humorous (strange?) people in the street.

John turned and shoved his shoes on. They heard pounding from downstairs. "Sherlock?" shouted John. Mrs. Ghulam shook her head; she said Sherlock and Ahsan went out, on a shopping trip? What the hell?

"Don't fight with these people," said John to the older woman, as he ran out the door. "Give them anything they want, OK? Understand? Answer all their questions honestly. DO NOT try to cover for me or Sherlock." John ran up the stairs and into the attic while Mrs. Ghulam went downstairs to answer the door.

John had been well-trained by the army, and John had done his reconnaissance last night.

Lesson one: whenever you enter a building, always locate the backdoor; in fact, find several backdoors if possible. Last night, John had found the door to the roof. It was a backdoor.

John crouched on the edge of the roof, hoping that the agents did not look up. Then he leapt over the gap and onto the roof of the neighboring building. John ran, crouched over, expecting a challenge any second. Then he jumped over a wider gap. He lost his footing for a moment and teetered on the edge of the next building. He lurched forward and fell onto his hands and knees, gasping like a fish.

The doctor paused; he couldn't go any further this way because the next building over was several stories higher. It was time to head down to street level.

The army doctor scurried over to roof's edge, and, bent low, he walked the perimeter. He saw an old, rusted fire escape a full story below.

John turned and lowered himself over the edge. He hung by his hands and then dropped down onto the rusty fire escape. It shuddered violently, a bolt popped out of the wall and John held his breath, waiting for the whole apparatus to plunge to the ground. Miraculously, the steps remained attached to the lichen covered brick building.

And where the bloody hell is Sherlock Bloody Holmes? Shopping? He is shopping and leaving me behind, again, thought John.

The doctor heard different voices shouting, "Target is on the move! Target is moving east. He got out somehow."

Oh God, they must have seen me, thought John. He clambered down the rusted fire escape. It had once been painted red but was now a powdery-orange-decay color. It was only loosely bolted to the four-story brick building, and it swayed sickeningly.

John felt dizzy but kept descending. It seemed every other step gave way beneath his weight. He held the railings to keep his balance; twice they bent as he gripped them.

"I don't give a shit how he got away! Find him; he can't be far." Someone (Jones?) yelled. Shite. Shite. Bloody Shite. It's bloody, Jones again.

John jumped off the lower end of the fire escape onto the sidewalk one story below. He hurt his right knee and scraped the knuckles of his left hand. Ignoring his knee, he ran blindly, dodging people and tearing across a street. A car screeched to a stop, narrowly avoiding him but hitting a lamppost. The driver laid on the horn. Other horns joined in.

John looked back, he spotted Sato and Mitchell, and, bloody hell, they had spotted him.

The doctor was already lost. And, by the way, he had nowhere to run to anyway. John pelted down the street, praying for one more last miracle.

* * *

"Mycroft, it is not my concern how you change John's orders. I simply require that you do so. If you do not, I shall never have anything to do with you, ever again," snarled Sherlock over the phone.

"Sherlock, you don't understand the military. You must leave John alone for his own good," Mycroft explained silkily. "Thanks to you, John has abandoned his post. Surely, even you know that that is a Court Martial offence. His only option is to coöperate with the CIA as per his orders…"

"You and your military have ordered John to work with a CIA team that is corrupt. Already they have leaked information about John to Dimitri, the Russian. If your people listen to the chatter over the Internet, they will undoubtedly find more references to John and this supposedly secret mission, which your CIA team leaked," snapped Sherlock.

"Dimitri?" asked Mycroft doubtfully. "Dimitri knows about John? Are you sure?"

"Don't insult me. As of yesterday, Dimitri was offering 10,000 dollars for John's capture; I suspect the amount of the reward will have already increased," said the detective, his neck rigid with fury. "Now call off MI6, try to call off the CIA, and change John's orders so that he can work independently. Damn it Mycroft! Even you know that John is as honest as they come. He said he'd find your missing toy, because he thinks it's the right thing to do. And so he will find it, or he'll die trying."

The angry detective continued, "If you involve that corrupt CIA team, your bomb will be sold to the highest bidder, and my blogger will be killed trying to stop them."

"Under the circumstances," said a conciliatory Mycroft, "I shall consider changing Captain Watson's orders, but only if you return at once to London. Sherlock, you must leave this matter to the military and to Captain Watson…"

"You will not listen. You will not understand me. John and I are a team; we are partners. We will not be separated again, Mycroft, not by anyone, and that includes you."

"Sherlock, listen…"

"No you listen, Mycroft," insisted the pale detective, his nostrils flaring in fury. "I will call back in a day or two. If John's new orders cannot be sent to me then, I shall break off all ties with you forever. And, so will Mummy. If you interfere or increase John's risk in any way, Mummy and I will both break off all ties with you."

"Mummy? What do you mean, Mummy?" demanded the British Government.

"Yes, I have spoke to Mummy about this," snapped Sherlock. "That is how important this is. Naturally, she will not interfere in government affairs, but she will interfere on behalf of my partner, John Watson. Feel free to call her. No doubt, she will be calling you shortly anyway. Use your head Mycroft. This stupid mission has no chance for success, unless John can sink undercover and work in anonymity. And, as remarkable as John is, he cannot possibly succeed with out somebody's help; therefore, I will assist him."

"I am hanging up now, so stop trying to trace the call. It is a foolish waste of time and resources." Sherlock slammed the pay phone back into its receiver.

Sherlock smoothed the front of his faded black hoodie. It was not nearly as satisfying as smoothing the front of his suit coat. No matter, the errands were now completed; it was time to return to the Ghulam's apartment building.

He checked the waterproof satchel strapped across his chest. It contained the false ID's for John and himself. At the last-minute he also had a set of fake ID's constructed for Ahsan. It cost a lot, but the Brazilian provided topnotch forgeries and had the reputation of not squealing on his clients. Sherlock had found the man to be invaluable during the years that Sherlock was in hiding. His satchel also contained a new handgun with forged registrations and a small fortune in American dollars. This last was courtesy of Mummy.

Sherlock and Ahsan strode down the street. From two blocks away, Sherlock heard squealing tires and the sound of a car crash. Drivers swerved around and honked at a man dodging through traffic, a short blond man whose arms pumped as he ran. The man slid across the hood of a moving taxi. John, it was John, dodging a taxi and cars. It was his John running past a building and out of sight. Two, no three men, wearing black were chasing him. They also sped behind the large apartment block.

Sherlock's blood ran cold. Anatomically unlikely, thought the detective. Sherlock was already dashing down the street to rescue his beleaguered blogger.

"Oh my God, the Men-in-Black are chasing John Watson," said Ahsan chasing after the consulting detective. They rounded the corner, looking for the pursuit. They must have turned down another street. Sherlock followed the sounds of shouting and honking.

Of course, John had disregarded his instructions and was out in public. Of course John was about to be kidnapped again. John Watson should never be left on his own again. Never. Ever. Again.

Sherlock froze at the next corner. His arm flew up to stop Ahsan. The Men-in-Black stood in the middle of the road, snarling traffic. The tall African-American shouted into his mobile phone while the others searched the street. Somehow, John had vanished.

* * *

John stood in the front of the MTA bus and argued with the bus driver, who refused to give change.

"Listen buddy, I'll give you two fives and a ten for your twenty. Then you can pay five bucks. You won't lose so much money, and we can get on our way," said a large, sweaty man wearing a yellow hard hat.

"He's a tourist. Where's he tryin to go?"asked a girl chewing gum, "Yo Mister! Whad'er ya doin, headin' inta Queens?"

"Pay your fare, or get off," said the bus driver, an irritable black woman who had had enough of the excitable British tourist.

"Actually, I'm trying to head into the city, like maybe, uh, uh Rockerfeller Center," said John to the chewing-gum-girl with pink hair.

"Shit, you got on the wrong bus buddy," laughed the heavyset construction worker, who exchanged money with the unshaved, disheveled doctor..

"OK, Mr. Tourist, keep your money," said the tired driver, glaring at him from over her sunglasses. "You get off this bus here. And you cross the street to that bus stop, right there. You wait, right there, for the Midtown Express. You ask the driver if you're on the bus to midtown. You ask for directions to Rockefeller Center. You got all that?" John pursed his lips and nodded. "Good," said the bus driver.

John got on the correct bus to midtown Manhattan after only two tries. The Forest Hills to Midtown Express passed by Mitchell, Sato and a third Man-in-Black as they stood in the middle of the road, but they did not seem to see him while he peered out of the window.

* * *

Ahsan left to retrieve his taxi, while the detective observed the CIA agents. Shortly, a black sedan pulled up, and the agents piled in. The sedan slowly headed northwest toward Manhattan.

Ahsan pulled up in his battered taxi, and Sherlock climbed in the front. "Quickly, Ahsan, follow that black sedan."

"Oh my God, did John Watson get himself kidnapped again?" asked Ahsan.

"The fools lost him," said the angry detective, "I overheard their arguments. One of them said, 'He's headed back into Midtown.' I am sure that they are tracking John. They have placed a chip in his clothes or possibly on his person. We will follow them. They will lead us to John, and then I shall whisk him out from under their noses. Fortunately, they are more incompetent than the Metropolitan police force."

The traffic congestion grew worse. It took almost an hour for the black sedan to pull over near Rockefeller Plaza, followed by the battered taxi. Sherlock exited the cab, after the three Men-in-Black left the sedan. He noted two more Men and two Women who were, of course, CIA agents as well. In fact, one was that monstrous Morstan woman, scurrying officiously in her black pantsuit and high-heels.

* * *

John had entered the crowds thronging Rockefeller Center at lunchtime. It was a cool spring day. but the sun felt warm. People of all shapes, all sizes, all colors and wearing every imaginable costume wandered in the sunshine. Except for being outside, John felt like he had wandered into the Cantina scene from Star Wars. Well, good, he could be Han Solo, a fighter. John suddenly missed his gun. Han Solo needed his trusty blaster at his side.

John's smile faded. He already missed Sherlock. God, how would he ever find Sherlock in this teeming megapolis?

John wandered with the other tourists, looking up at the massive statue of Atlas. As the adrenaline rush disappeared, John felt chilled, and he bought some coffee from a vender. The drink was bitter but welcome after running all over Queens then traveling on the bewildering MTA buses. At least he seemed to have lost the CIA, for now.

Unfortunately, he had also completely lost the annoying (yet still beloved) Sherlock Holmes and the now equally annoying Ahsan Ghulam. What the hell were they doing shopping? What, were they out of milk? And why did John Watson get left behind, again? Sod that.

Then again, maybe they were better off shopping. At least they were safely away from the bloody CIA, unless the CIA already had them in their clutches. John's breath caught in his chest at the thought. Bloody Hell. What would Han Solo do, John wondered.

John wandered through the gaudy tourists and lunching New Yorkers. He looked up dizzily at the surrounding skyscrapers. Well at least I look like another idiotic tourist, thought John dismally.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He recognized that tall, handsome Man-in-Black by the statue of Prometheus. Shite, that was bloody Mitchell, and he was talking to the wretched Mary Morstan. Please don't let them see me. Shite, Shite. Shite chanted John under his breath. He hunched over and scurried behind a large group of Asian tourists.

John dashed over to the nearest vender and bought a Yankee's hat and sweatshirt. "You all alone, handsome?" asked the girl handing him his change.

"Um, no I'm with friends," said John shoving his arms into the oversized hoodie. "I got separated from my party but …"

"Well, I get off soon; I could give you a tour. I bet you're from England, ain't cha?" she smiled and blew a bubble with her gum. Her hair was black and electric blue; rather attractive in a Gothic way, but not really John's type. She rested her hand on his arm.

"Ah, I think I see my party over there. I should, um go. Ah my, my boyfriend gets very, well, jealous, ah yeah," John pulled the Yankee's hat down over his head and scurried away from the colorful but predatory vendor.

Christ! That's Agent Sato, thought John. He executed a perfect about-face and rushed back toward the street and away from the Plaza that was now swarming with agents.

He was instantly lost again.

John dodged tourists taking pictures and workers eating sausages on a bun. John was already wearing some mustard on his new hoodie, thanks to a collision with a large woman wielding one such sandwich.

So far the Men and Women-in Black, down in the Plaza, had not spotted John, but they obviously knew he was here. How had they tracked him down so fast? How the bloody hell was he going to get out of this one? There was no way that John would be able to find Sherlock now.

John was all but sideswiped by a bus, and he narrowly avoided being hit by a bicycle. Of course, the bicycle would remind him of St. Bart's. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," muttered John under his breath fighting off yet another flashback, "I am so screwed."

John looked all over for more Men-in-Black. He also watched for Russian Mobsters until he realized that he had no idea what a Russian Mobster looked like. He walked with the crowd of New Yorkers, trying to blend in.

Maybe he should just get on another bus to say, the State of New Jersey or the State of Connecticut or maybe the State of Illinois. How far was Illinois from New York City anyway?

Of course, if he got on one of those buses, he might never see Sherlock again. Maybe that would be best for Sherlock. Oh bloody hell, my life can't get much worse, thought John.

The bewildered doctor was jostled by Goths, boys in baggy pants, still more tourists dressed in fantastic colors and men and women in suits (not CIA black suits, thankfully).

Suddenly, a tall man magically materialized in front of him and firmly grasped his arm.

"John, what part of, 'don't leave the building' did you not understand?" asked Sherlock, dragging his blogger down the street.

"I dunno, Mr. Genius,' spat John, secretly weak-kneed with relief. Man-up, Watson, he chided himself.

"I suppose I got confused when had to run for my life after I woke up ALONE, with the CIA battering down the door." John glared up from under his lowered brows at his tall dick who was his boyfriend.

"Ah," said the handsome dick. "I did not anticipate that they would be able to discover your location so quickly."

John correctly assumed that this was as close to an apology as he was likely to receive.

"Yeah, well," said the doctor, "I managed to escape over the roof tops. They were too stupid to look up. No combat experience, I guess. They'd be sitting ducks for a sniper."

"Very resourceful, John," said the detective.

Wow, an almost apology and a compliment in one conversation. My lucky day, thought John.

"I don't understand why you didn't just circle back to the apartment building," said Sherlock pulling his blogger behind him.

"Oh, well," said John, mentally searching for a plausible excuse.

"You got lost, of course. John, your poor sense of direction is beyond belief. It is fortunate that I am here to deduce your movements and find you, repeatedly. At least I will never be bored with you. I will be entertained on a daily basis by having to search for you."

"Shut up," snapped John. "And leave go. People are staring." John tried to tug away from the madman intent on dislocating his arm.

"Stop trying to pull away, John. I don't plan on losing you again today. We just don't have time to play 'Locate the Blogger' right now," the detective.

"I said, people are looking, Sherlock."

"Yes. Yes. Let them look."

John heaved a sigh, "OK, Right. How did you find me then?" he asked, breaking into a trot to keep up.

"I didn't. They did," said Sherlock, his brows lowered when he saw John's blank look. "Think, John. Oh, never mind, there isn't time for you to think," John rolled his eyes.

"They are tracking you, obviously," said the consulting detective. "Your story only confirms my suspicions. They knew where you were and waited until I was out of the apartment. Indeed, they waited until I was engaged on the phone with my traitorous brother. He shall pay."

"Jones must have planted a chip on you," continued Sherlock. "I only hope that it is in your clothes. We will have to examine you closely in case they implanted the chip under your skin."

John was seriously creeped out at the thought of having a chip implanted under his skin. He slowed down and tried to feel along his arms for hidden implants.

"Not now, John," said Sherlock, "People are looking."

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered John.

Sherlock abruptly turned into a parking garage and then dragged his blogger into a stairwell. They descended three flights.

Sherlock stopped suddenly and turned to face his doctor. He gripped John's shoulders, and he stared down into the shorter man's face. "Seriously, John, are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

"I'm fine. Really, I'm fine," said the army doctor, short of breath.

"Good. Now take off your clothes," ordered the detective.

"Excuse me. What?" said the doctor, his voice squeaking and his face burning.

"John, take off your clothes. Somewhere on you is a tracking chip. I mean to find it. There's no need to look outraged, I do not plan to take advantage of you. That will have to wait for a more opportune moment," said Sherlock, with a lift of his lips hinting at a smile.

His blood pressure rising, John reluctantly removed his shirts. He stood blushing as Sherlock methodically looked and felt over every inch of skin from his scalp to his waistline.

He tried to ignore the goose-flesh forming from the strokes of Sherlock's all-to-warm hands. He also had to ignore the internal fire that Sherlock had ignited. I am not aroused, thought John. The doctor concentrated on kittens and hedgehogs cavorting in a field of pink wildflowers. Yes, John was desperate enough to invoke the dreaded hedgehogs.

Unfortunately, the kittens and hedgehogs were worse than useless. John felt Sherlock's warm breath on his back. Oh God, if anyone walks in on us, they'll see me…

"Sherlock, this is insane. If someone walks in on us…" complained John..

"I doubt anyone will come down here until late in the day. I also hope that our underground location will disrupt the tracking. Incidentally, can you blush on command? Oh yes, I see that you can. It is most stimulating, very good, John," said the detective.

"Well, John," continued Sherlock. "I have found nothing. Put on your new hoodie and then take off your shoes, trousers and pants."

John froze while in the process of pulling the Yankees sweatshirt back over his tousled head. "Not the pants."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, "John, I know exactly what you have hidden in your pants. Or have you forgotten the Subway Incident?"

John had shucked off his shoes and was in the process of pulling down his jeans. "Incident. Incident! We make love, and you call it an Incident?"

"And you call it making love? Interesting," muttered the detective. Sherlock was on his knees examining John's feet and legs. He was forced to avoid most of John's torn and swollen right kneecap when John hissed at him for squeezing it.

"I can find nothing. You claim that you were not unconscious with the CIA agents for very long, I doubt they could have inserted a chip in your groin without your becoming aware of in. Let me see your back."

John turned slowly, chewing the inside of his lips. He couldn't decide if he wanted to die from the embarrassment of being nearly naked in public with a hard on or from despair at loving a man who called lovemaking an incident. It was certain, however, that John Watson devoutly wished for death. Christ.

"Christ! Sherlock! What the bloody hell?" exclaimed John.

Sherlock had pulled John's pants down and was now examining John's arse, his lovely, firm, round arse. Sherlock breathed slowly onto John's back, his long, pale hands paused, holding his blogger's cheeks.

"John, you are very distracting. Really, this is very disturbing. I wish that you could be a bit less distracting when I'm trying to work," said the detective.

"Me?" asked John, mortified that it came out as a squeak once again.

"Mmmm," replied Sherlock. "I can find nothing. Cover yourself, John. That display in front of you is really too much, John."

Sherlock turned to the wall to regain his composure. Seeing his blogger, naked and erect, left the detective aching with desire. To distract himself, Sherlock imagined Agent Jones inserting his damned chip in John. He imagined his own fist ramming down Jones' throat in retribution. That helped, but did not remove the image of John that was permanently burned into Sherlock's brain.

"Leave the shoes, socks and jeans. We will go into the garage to meet with Ahsan. There you will discard your pants for some new ones and also some new jeans and shoes." Sherlock stood up and leaned his forehead down onto John's forehead. "I hope that you will let me repeat this examination at a later date doctor. I would like to relieve you of your, ah, tension."

He kissed John's forehead. Then he kissed his blogger's lips slowly, licking first the upper and then the lower lips once each. John parted his lips and sucked on Sherlock's tongue.

Sherlock pulled away. "John, I asked you to stop distracting me. Really. I promise that I will give you the attention you deserve as soon as possible. Now come along; Ahsan is waiting."

He pulled his sputtering doctor into the garage.

"Oh my God. Sherlock Holmes. I was becoming worried. You took so very long and what has happened to John Watson's clothes? Is he hurt? He does not look very happy," said Ahsan, his caramel colored face, wrinkled with concern.

"John is fine," said the consulting detective. "Take off your pants, John." John and Ahsan stared at the detective, who leaned into the car to pull out a sack. "John, we do not have time for your school-girl modesty. Pants off and put these on….Do you require my assistance?"

John glanced wide-eyed at Ahsan. The young man looked shocked but did not offer any help. John grabbed the sack from Sherlock and hid behind an SUV to remove the old pants and put on the new briefs and jeans.

I should have let that car hit me. I should have laid down in front of the bus. At least, the extreme embarrassment has relieved my hard-on, thought John.

He cheered up a bit, when he remembered that Sherlock had promised to relieve John's 'tension'. Oh bloody hell, the hard-on had returned.

**A/N **Thank you to everyone for all the fantastic reviews.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer**Just in case anyone got confused, I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, S. Moffat or M. Gatiss nor do I represent the BBC. Therefore, I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. Still too bad for me.

**Rated M**

**Chapter 11**

John stepped out from behind the SUV, wearing new clothes that Sherlock guaranteed were free from tracking chips.

"Very good, John," said the detective. "Now for the difficult part."

A chill ran down John's spine. This was bad, very, very bad. If Sherlock thought that something was 'difficult', it was likely to be fatal or worse.

"Sherlock, I have been chased, forced off a moving train, kidnapped, trapped in the subways…"

"We were never trapped, John."

"Trapped," asserted John emphatically. "and attacked by giant rats and giant Russians. Just now, I was strip-searched like a common criminal. And now it gets even worse?" asked John, his voice rising in pitch as his chin rose belligerently.

"This will be just a little bit difficult, John. I intend to smuggle you out of the city under the noses of the CIA and Mafia in this car, which Ahsan has borrowed for us. I propose that you hide in the boot of the car…"

"No. No, I will not, under any circumstances, hide in the boot of the car," said John. He spoke quietly, but he stood at attention, ready to fight or flee with his fists clenched tightly. He sent his own death glare up to the detective from under his lowered brows.

"Oh my God, what is this boot? Is it a police boot? We cannot use a police boot to lock up John Watson," said Ahsan, confused. He dragged his hand through his hair, distractedly.

"Ahsan, I am referring to the boot, the luggage compartment of the car," said Sherlock, his steely eyes locked on John.

"Oh, well then, I suppose that's alright," said Ahsan.

"NO! It is NOT alright," John fought the urge to shriek at his so-called friends.

"John, we have to prevent CIA agents, the Mafia, local CCTV cameras and the police from spotting you. I considered hiding you on the floor of the back seat, but it would be too easy to spot you. Furthermore, I have obtained a lead vest from a dentist's office…"

"Which he stole it from a dentist's office. Oh my God, I could not believe my eyes, he picked the lock and…"

"I will not be trapped, in the dark, in the boot, under a weighted vest. I think I mentioned that I am not happy when I'm locked into dark, spider-infested spaces. It will not happen," asserted the angry soldier. His face was pale with fury; the death glare only intensified.

"And I suspect the leaded vest will block the tracking chip's signal, assuming that there is one," continued Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I have to talk to you, alone. Now!" John grabbed Sherlock's arm and, rather roughly, dragged the detective behind the grey SUV.

"Look, Sherlock, I appreciate all your efforts to help me," said John speaking rapidly, "but things have gotten out of control. I think maybe I should just give myself up to the CIA. I can get away from them later. I'll be back on my old turf…"

Sherlock tilted his head and observed his flatmate. John's breathing was rapid, his pupils dilated, skin pale-amend that, very pale, (in fact ashen), fists tightly clenched and the subject stood stiffly in his defensive military stance. Conclusion subject is under severe emotional stress-possibly anger but more likely fear-amend that, more likely terror.

"…so I'll just head back to the Rockerfella Place find Jones, and everyone will be happy and…"

"You are blithering, John," said Sherlock. "Furthermore, I have already determined that you have little chance of surviving this operation while working with the current CIA team. I strongly suspect that someone in the CIA plans to sell you out Alternatively, they will obtain the device to sell it, and you will be in the way. In either scenario, you end up dead."

"If self-preservation doesn't force you to reevaluate your position, consider this." instructed the consulting detective. "The nuclear device will be sold to a hostile government or, worse, a terrorist group. They will, at the very least, use it to blackmail hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people. In the worst case, they will detonate it. Causing the deaths of untold…"

"Alright, alright. Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop it. You're right," growled the soldier. "I agree, you're right. Just give me a minute to think. I can't think right now."

"John, I need more data. I would like to know what is precipitating this unreasonable reaction," said the detective.

"Data, right. Um, I when I was five years old," said John,who glowered up at the taller man. "My dad locked me in the closet to punish me for crying when I got hurt. It was dark. And the dark was heavy and suffocating, and I can still feel it crushing me. It tried to strangle me." Sherlock drew back and scanned his blogger with his gun-metal grey eyes. "And there were certainly spiders. I could feel them, probably black widow spiders. They like closets."

"He locked me up whenever I cried or laughed too loud or acted like a child," continued John. "It happened over and over until I was about seven, because by then, I learned to act like a perfect little soldier. I didn't cry or play around. I took care of business around the house, and he was satisfied"

"John?" began Sherlock, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse. There was a strange, unfamiliar choking feeling in the detective's throat that impeded his speech.

"NO Sherlock! Because that's not all, there's a bit more data. You see the closet thing started up again when Harry came out about being a Lesbian. My father hated Harry for that. God only knows why it mattered to him, but he'd start a fight with Harry, and it nearly always ended up in violence. I had to protect her _because_ _he had made me a soldier_. I was a pretty good fighter, but even at age ten, I wasn't bloody strong enough to fight him off. He always won. I always ended up back in the closet for the night. The funny thing is, he always fell for it, the distraction I mean. I drew his attention away from Harry, by fighting with him, and that gave her the chance to get away." John smiled grimly.

"I finally won the fight when I was thirteen. I ended up with a broken arm and rib, but I knocked him out that night, bam, down for the count. I did not go back into the bloody closet ever again. I fought bloody hard so that I would never have to go into the closet again. And I will not go into the bloody damn boot now," yelled John, jabbing a finger painfully into Sherlock's chest with the last words.

Sherlock licked his lips. He imagined a young John, forced into a dark closet or fighting a much larger man to protect his sister. The choking sensation was still there. Sherlock put out a hand to grasp John's shoulder.

"Don't touch me," said John pulling back frantically, his blue eyes wide and dilated.

"John, it's fine. You don't have to do it. I'll think of something else," said Sherlock managing to grip John's shoulder tightly. Sherlock was convinced that if he let go now, his blogger would bolt.

"Good, fine," agreed John. He took a deep breath to stop his hyperventilation.

Everyone was silent; John's labored breathing was the only sound. Ahsan tugged nervously at the cords on his windbreaker. Sherlock slowly released John's shoulder; at least John did not try to run away.

The detective began to pace noiselessly back and forth. He cudgelled his brain, desperate to think of an alternate plan to save his John. He looked up at the young Pakistani who had helped the detective and his blogger.

"Ahsan, any new plan I devise will be even riskier than our original plan. You should go, now," decided Sherlock. "I don't trust those CIA agents and the mafia has no morals at all. Clearly, they cannot afford to kill John, until he finds what they desire. However, I greatly fear that they will hurt you in order to coerce John's coöperation."

"Bloody hell," muttered John, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And, will they not also use you against John Watson, Sherlock Holmes?" asked Ahsan, rooted to the spot.

"Christ and Bloody hell!" yelled John, feeling the trap closing on him. He began to mindlessly punch the side of the car. Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"John stop being childish. You are hurting your hand. You have split your knuckles; they are bleeding.," snapped Sherlock, furious. John tried to yank his arm away but Sherlock held it with both hands. Despite his anger, he cradled John's hand gently against his chest. "John, stop it; I will think of something. Perhaps a bus would work?"

"No. No, it won't or you would have suggested it already," said John, despairing. "You should just let me turn myself in, then at least you and Ahsan would be safe," insisted John.

"Oh my God, has he slipped and hit his head? He is talking crazy," said Ahsan. "John Watson! Sherlock Holmes and I will sneak you out of New York, and then you will save us all from the secret weapon that Sherlock Holmes will not talk about," urged Ahsan, his dark eyes huge.

"John, you and I just discussed this. The risks…" started the detective.

"OK, OK, how about this then, um just, set me on a bus to somewhere like Gary, Indiana or, or Chicago or, or Topeka. I can wear a wig, a disguise," said John, beside himself again.

"John, you and I are a team, and we go together. If you want to try the bus, I will be there with you. If you wish to try your luck with a governmental agency, then I recommend MI6 or Mossad. I have some influence, however slight, with the British Government, and I've worked well with Mossad at least twice. When I say that I worked well with Mossad…"

John's breath was ragged. He needed regain of control over himself. Think like a soldier. How would the Colonel have evaluated his options? Settle down. Think. Leave all the options on the table, even the bloody, damn boot. A soldier completes his mission: no matter the sacrifice and without whinging.

Right, time to run through the options. John drew a deep breath.

"Could we get away on the bus, d'ya think?" asked the army doctor, his voice still shaky.

Sherlock considered the question, "There is a small chance that we could evade everyone long enough to get to a safe airport. However, I strongly suspect that the local bus and train stations will be watched, as will all the airports. I believe that our best chance will be to head to Canada or Mexico and fly out from there. I have had some experience evading official scrutiny during my, ah, absence," said the detective with unexpected diplomacy.

"Could I, could we, work with MI6 or even Mossad?" asked John, more calm now.

"I believe MI6 would be difficult to work with because they will eventually control your every action. The British Government will, in turn, control them. I also suspect that the British Government will attempt to forcibly remove me from this operation. I hope that MI6 is honest and that the British Government has checked again for any corruption with in the agency. As far as Mossad is concerned, they would be effective and likely would be less controlling, but they will certainly insist on controlling the arms and devices that you uncover. And they may yet sell us out to the British Government. It depends on the state of world affairs which, as you insist, I do not pay enough attention to." A smile ghosted across Sherlock lips.

"In your opinion as a consulting detective and having lived anonymously for over two years, the only chance I have of locating the caches and retaining any control over myself or the arms, is to go underground as soon as possible?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded.

"And to go underground, I have to get out of New York City where the surveillance is too intense. From there, you propose that we cross the border into Canada or Mexico and fly to South Asia."

Sherlock nodded again; he felt more relaxed now that John was behaving in his usual, calm, dull and pedantic fashion.

"So I have to hide in the damn, bloody boot to get out of the City of New York . And they won't be watching you or Ahsan, why?" demanded Captain Watson.

"Most of the people, who are looking for you, are not yet aware of me or Ahsan. Furthermore, in ten minutes, Ahsan and I will be disguised. I will have red hair and Ahsan will be a blond," said Sherlock.

"Well, why didn't you just say all this to begin with instead of making me dredge up ancient history?" asked John, in no mood to be fair or reasonable. "It was a waste of valuable time, Sherlock."

"I tried, but you…" began the detective.

"No, no Sherlock Holmes, you must accept the responsibility and agree with John Watson," said Ahsan nodding significantly at the consulting detective. His dark brown eyes caught the steely blue eyes of the detective. Sherlock turned to consider John and did not argue further.

"I have always wanted to be blond, this is exciting, " said Ahsan.

"Exciting my ass," muttered John. "Fat lot of good being blond ever did me. Blonds have more fun?" John snorted, "Yeah, they get to ride in the boot, in the dark, with black widow spiders and God only knows what else…." John wandered off to a corner still muttering.

"Hurry Sherlock Holmes, we must get him out of here before he changes his mind again. Quickly fix our hair with your special sprays, and we can go," urged Ahsan.

"I can hear you, you know," groused the army doctor. "And I won't change my mind. Have fun with your sprays. I'll just sit over here in the corner, shall I? Oh look, here's a spider already, probably a brown recluse spider" John sat and lowered his head into his arms, waiting for the trap to close shut. His continued to mutter unintelligibly into his arms while Sherlock prepared disguises for himself and Ahsan.

Less than fifteen minutes later, John climbed into the trunk of the taxi, refusing his flatmate's assistance.

"You will need to cover as much of yourself as possible with the lead vest in order to block any tracking chips," said Sherlock, his hair shorter and a disconcerting shade of red.

"Yes, yes, I think even I can remember that," said John, angrily.

"That is sarcasm and, so, unnecessary. These are new satellite phones. They are prepaid, and should be almost untraceable. I'll call you when we get out on the street, John. You can spend the entire road trip telling me about my shortcomings, John."

Is that supposed to be a joke?" asked John.

"I thought it would break the ice," replied Sherlock, with a hint of a smile raising the corner of his lip.

"Right. Look, can we just get this over with?" John flung himself onto his side, and pulled the lead vest over himself. "Bloody hell," muttered John as lid closed and the dark engulfed him. "Oh, bloody hell."

* * *

Thirty-two minutes later, the taxi pulled out of the Lincoln Tunnel in heavy traffic and headed towards the Meadowlands of New Jersey and Interstate 80 west. The heavy clouds coming in from the west were tinged with pink as the sun sank below them. The congested multilane highways teamed with traffic.

"You must tell John Watson that we are in New Jersey again, and we are making good time, yes, my very best time," said Ahsan still thrilled with his new blond hair. He swerved around a tractor-trailer and then pulled in front of it. The truck blew its horn loudly.

Sherlock remembered to raise his finger to the truck. John would be pleased, thought the detective.

"John Watson, is very brave even especially if he didn't like the trunk at first," said Ahsan speeding past a sports car. "Eat my dust, stupid mustang!" called the new, blond, Pakistani, babe magnet.

"John Watson is the bravest man that I ever met," said Sherlock, in his thinking pose. Then he tilted his head toward the cab driver. "Ahsan, I can safely say that John Watson is a proud man. I have considered this, and whatever you heard in the garage…"

"I heard nothing except your explanation of the risks and his deciding to believe you. Even that little is in my head secretly for all time," asserted the young driver. "You are very smart to consider this about John Watson. Very smart."

"Ahsan, as long as I am considering sentiments, I should note that you are also endowed with uncommon bravery. No doubt that is why you and John Watson get along together so well," said the detective uncomfortably. "Also, you are not as idiotic as most other people."

"Thank you, Sherlock Holmes," said the Pakistani, greatly flattered. Another truck honked at the flying taxi, Ahsan and Sherlock raised their fingers in unison.

"It would be desirable, if you would not mention this discussion to John Watson," added Sherlock.

"Oh my God, I would never talk to John Watson about this. I think it would make him angry. He gets angry very much quicker than almost anyone else, except my cousin, Ali, and most truck drivers," said the cheerful young man.

Sherlock was exhausted from being nice. Mycroft would berate Sherlock for such sentimental tripe. "I shall now delete this sentimental nonsense," announced the detective coldly.

Unfortunately, since it concerned John closely and since he did not delete John related data, Sherlock let the sentiments remain. He did insist that the sentiments reside in John's wing. Then he decided to text his blogger again.

**Should be at the border with Pennsylvania in one hour and twenty minutes SH**

**Tell Ahsan to slow down. **

**Something crawled up my leg. Ask Ahsan if the taxi has been in the woods lately. **

**It could be a tick. Deer ticks are prevalent in the woods of the Eastern United States. They carry Lyme disease. I think the tick bit me and now I'm going to get Lyme disease.**

**You didn't sign your texts. SH**

**You bloody well know it's me. Why should I sign them?**

**In the interests of clarity, you should sign your texts. SH**

**I hate you. Sincerely, John Hamish Watson**

**I still have the tick. I can't see it even with the torch but I can feel it. It is probably embedded in my skin and engorged with my blood. JW**

**Tell Ahsan to slow down. JW**

**What is the incubation period for Lyme Disease?**

**This cab belongs to Ahsan's brother's wife's cousin, and it was never in the woods. The worst-case scenario is that a small insect, like a mosquito, may have bitten you. SH**

**Great, they carry the West Nile and Eastern Equine Encephalitis viruses. **

**You should sign your texts. SH**

**Sorry, it's hard to think. I think I have CO poisoning.**

**And Lyme Disease. JW**

**The first torch burned out. Maybe it had defective batteries. What if they all have defective batteries? JW**

**Do you think the torches and phone will last much longer? JW**

**I am signing my texts and you still aren't answering. There is something wrong. JW**

**What is wrong? Tell me now. JW**

**You won't forget to let me out of the boot? **

**Sherlock?**

**Sherlock?**

**Sign your texts SH**

**Dammit Sherlock JW**

**I will not forget to let you out of the boot but remember it is actually called a trunk. SH**

**What is wrong?! JW**

**No more exclamation marks. They are tedious and convey nothing. Indeed, nothing is wrong. I was busy reviewing all the illnesses that are about to befall you. It's best to be prepared. At least you don't have to worry about rabies. SH**

**Now, who's sarcastic? **

**How much longer? **

**You forgot to sign your texts again. SH**

**You are the most annoying dick that I have ever met. You know damn well it's me.**

**Me who? SH**

**How Long?! JW**

**How long? JW**

**Thirty minutes. SH**

**Thank you : ) JW**

**What is : ) ? SH**

**It's an emoticon of course ;p JW**

**Is it code? SH**

**I don't understand it. I need more examples to work with if I am to break the code. SH**

**:D JW**

**Is it a replacement code? SH**

**They are emoticons, Sherlock. They convey feelings. ;-P JW**

**That's ridiculous. That makes no sense. Please refrain from such pointless texting. SH**

**:o JW**

**Stop it. SH**

**:-/ JW**

**:-p****** JW**

**Stop it. SH**

**=^_^= JW**

**Take a nap. SH**

**:-P*** JW**

"Is John Watson doing very well?" asked Ahsan, driving past a car at 76 mph. He abruptly cut off a tour bus. He ignored the honking as usual. Sherlock absently raised his middle finger.

"I made John angry by making him sign his texts, which is actually helpful, under the circumstances. However, he has suddenly become childish and irritating," complained the consulting detective studying his texts. "Oh. Oh, I see. The first one is a smiley face. How dull. Still, I do not understand the other characters."

**:) is a smiley face. Very dull. What does the :-P*** mean? SH**

**It roughly translates to blowing raspberries. JW**

**? SH**

**It means sod off. JW**

**We are near the Pennsylvania Border. SH**

**: ) JW**

**Stop it. SH**

**No. ;-P***JW**

"You maybe can not see now it is dark, but that is the Delaware River, Sherlock Holmes," said Ahsan.

"Mmm," hummed the detective. He tried to puzzle out the stupid feelings codes. He hated not understanding a puzzle. Even a stupid John puzzle.

Especially a stupid John puzzle,

"General George Washington crossed the Delaware River and saved the United States from the very bad Red Coats. Oh, oh my God, John Watson would be a Red Coat as he is a British Army Captain," stated Ahsan. "I am taking a citizenship course, Sherlock Holmes."

"Mmmm," hummed the detective.

"I will be a citizen of the United States one day," continued Ahsan proudly.

He passed a black sedan at 78 mph; the sedan picked up speed and followed the battered taxi.

"Yes, a citizen, very well," said Sherlock. He turned his phone upside down to observe the idiotic emoticon at a different angle. Then, in the rear view mirror, he noticed the car speeding towards them.

"Ahsan! Watch out, that car..."

Ahsan swerved into the right lane to get out of the way of the black sedan. He laid on his horn. The sedan followed the taxi and clipped their back drivers-side bumper, which tore off with a rending scream. The taxi pulled back in to the left lane and almost crashed into the barrier on the tight turn.

"Speed up," ordered the detective, who tried to pullout his firearm as he fell against the door on the next turn.

"Oh my God, I am speeding up." The black sedan pulled up along their right side. "Oh my God, Oh my God. There is another one coming behind us!" yelled the young man.

The second black car nudged them from behind with a crash. Buckled metal groaned and the taxi's motor wailed in protest as the sedan pushed the taxi along.

Sherlock heard John scream something from the boot of the car. John. John could be hurt now; he would soon be dead unless they pulled away from the black sedans. For an instant, Sherlock's brain froze with fear.

* * *

John had nearly fallen asleep when he was jolted awake. The taxi lurched, and John was thrown against the back wall of the boot, no the trunk. Oh for God's sake, who cares what it's called? A horn blared, and there was a tremendous bang as something collided with the cab.

The taxi was speeding up.

BANG, something crashed into the back of the taxi, crumpling the lid of the boot. John slammed against the divider to the taxi's cabin. John tried to text, but the taxi swerved wildly, flinging the doctor around.

Bloody hell, Sherlock won't be answering texts now. You're an idiot, John Watson, thought the doctor, pocketing his phone. He tried bracing himself.

More honking. There was another crash. The taxi's breaks shrieked in distress.

John was tossed about like a toy, in the back of the taxi. His head and shoulder banged up to the lid, then he crashed back to the floor. Another heavier crash reverberated inside the boot. John's head smashed into the floor then against the side of the car.

John was dizzy and confused. What the bloody hell? Water was pouring in through the crumpled lid of the boot. That didn't make sense. What was water doing in the boot of the car?

"Oh for fuck's sake, not this," yelled John, as his brain reengaged. "This is not happening! SHERLOCK?" yelled John. He could feel the taxi settling into water.

The desperate doctor tried to push the lid open. "Sherlock! Ahsan! What the hell…Are you hurt? Answer me!"

He tried to kick his way through the divider into the back of the car. Black, icy water poured in; he was trapped.

The air pocket was disappearing fast. John used every ounce of strength to kick at the divider between the boot and the back seat. "Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock!" he screamed. "Sherlock! Are you there? You gotta answer me." He gulped a last breath of air as water completely filled the boot.

Sherlock. What had happened to Sherlock? Submerged, John kicked at the backseat again. Oddly, it seemed to move a fraction.

Hallucination, of course. Wishful thinking. God forgive me. I tried to be a good soldier. The torch went out, John Watson was going to drown, in the dark, in the boot of an old taxi. Please God; don't let Sherlock die, he thought. The thought was an eerie echo from another life.

His lungs burned as he kicked at the backseat one last time. It seemed to move again. Too little, too late, John thought. He snorted hysterically, and was rewarded with freezing water filling his mouth and nose.

He kicked weakly at the barrier, which moved yet again. too late. oh well. too bad.

Sherlock, he thought. oh God…I love you, sher..lock i.. love you…sherlock…sherl…i love…sher….

**TBC**

**Review?**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer-**Just in case anyone forgot, I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, S. Moffat or M. Gatiss nor do I represent the BBC. Therefore, I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. Still too bad for me.

**Chapter 12**

The highway gleamed darkly beneath their headlights. Ghostlike, a misty fog swirled and obscured the trees lining the highway.

The taxi had nearly reached the four-lane bridge, when the black sedan slammed into the car. Ahsan lost control of his cab, and the battered car skidded over the wet asphalt.

The car rammed through the low guard rails; the taxi plunged into the river. The airbags exploded, trapping Ahsan and Sherlock against their seats.

The taxi bobbed briefly in the steady current like a bizarre boat. The airbags automatically deflated.

Sherlock quickly overcame his shock, and he tore off their seatbelts.

"Get out. Swim to shore" the detective ordered the stunned driver. He reached over to lower the window.

"But what about John?" screamed Ahsan. The overhead light dimly illuminated the two men; blood flowed from a gash on Ahsan's forehead.

"Get out; get help! Try to get help," yelled the detective again, his deep voice cracking. "GO!"

The appalled, young Pakistani slipped through the open window as water poured in. Sherlock turned back to the boot of the car. John is trapped; John will die. No. Sherlock clambered over the seats and onto the back seat. He heard banging from the boot. John was not only alive: he was trying to escape.

CRASH. The backseat moved towards Sherlock; John had pushed it from behind. More water poured out from the flooded boot.

"No, no, no!" screamed Sherlock. Some skin ripped off one hand unnoticed as Sherlock tore frantically at the seatback, "John! John!" he screamed.

Sherlock heard a small crash and the gap into the boot widened. He pulled desperately at the seat and finally tore it away; water quickly filled his compartment. The car was completely underwater now.

Sherlock snatched a breath of stale air from the pocket under the ceiling and dove toward the boot reaching out for John. He felt an unmoving leg and then an arm. Submerged in the cold, dark water Sherlock tugged; John's limp body only blocked the gap. The dim overhead light went out, plunging Sherlock into Stygian darkness.

Sherlock shoved his fear and panic deep into his mind palace. This was John's last chance. It was Sherlock's last chance; he would not leave his blogger. He would not leave John.

Sherlock raised his head for a last breath of air, and then he sank down to the opening. He reached into the cavity and grasped John's shoulders, pulling his blogger head first into the cabin.

Using touch, Sherlock found the submerged open window; his lungs screamed for air. It was silent in the frigid water. When the detective shoved his blogger through the window, he heard only a muted thump as John's body collided against the car. Sherlock swarmed out after John.

His chest burned, and his vision filled with white light. Sherlock kicked and exploded upwards. His fist had twisted into John's shirt, and he pulled the unmoving man up behind him. Sherlock's dark head broke the surface of the roiling black water; with an involuntary sob, he drew in breath.

"Holmes!" cried a voice. Hands supported the detective's shoulders. Sherlock pulled John's head out of the water; he blew two breaths into John's cold, lifeless mouth. The detective sobbed again, choking in the frigid, dark torrent.

"For God's sake, Holmes. Let me help," it was the CIA agent, the tall African-American. The agent swam strongly and pulled Sherlock and his blogger to the river's shore.

"Is there anyone else down there?" screamed a second man who grasped Sherlock's arm, and helped drag him toward the shore.

"Ahsan was there," yelled Sherlock. John was limp. John was dead, oh God, oh God, John.

"The kid's safe. Mary's got him," yelled the man.

They were suddenly at the tree-lined river shore. The big agent lifted John completely out of Sherlock's arms and placed the inert blond on the muddy ground, preparing to do CPR.

Sherlock flung the man aside. He dropped to his knees and began rescue breathing. _Breathe into John_. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. _Again, breathe into John._ Oh, God. I know you're not there. _Breathe into John_. Watch John's chest rise and fall. _Breathe into John._ Please make him live, God. _Breath into John_. Make him live. _Breathe in._ I love him. _Breathe for John._ Make him live. _Breathe for me, John_.

"Keep breathing, Holmes, keep breathing for him. He still has a pulse," ordered the agent. "For God's sake, Cochrane, did you call for help yet. Morstan, where the hell is Crowe? Where the hell is everyone?"

Sherlock rolled John onto his side as the blond began to choke and cough up water. After the paroxysms ended, the detective pulled his blogger onto his lap, clutching him tightly. John coughed and wheezed harshly.

Sherlock turned to the group crowded around them. "Is this your plan? Drown him; kill him? Are you all idiots? " he barked roughly. "If John suffers any permanent injury, I shall repay you in kind…"

"Can it, Holmes!" said Mary Morstan. "Here, let me help him."

"I think you've helped him enough tonight," hissed the detective.

John roused and cried out incoherently. He struggled in Sherlock's strong arms. The tall man, looking thinner than usual in his soaked clothing, turned from the CIA agents and tried to calm John. "John, hold still. You're alright. You're safe."

Air. There was air. For a minute, John only knew that there was air; he could breathe. John coughed up more water. His chest and throat burned from repeated retching. Someone held him while he choked and gasped in the cold air.

Flashes of memory assailed him. Car. Underwater. Drowning. Sherlock. Ahsan. John began to fight weakly at the arms restraining him. Sherlock. "Sherer" John called out incoherently.

John dimly heard Sherlock's deep voice rumble in his ear. "John, listen to me. You're alright. Everything will be alright, I promise."

OK. OK. Sherlock was safe. It was OK then. John let himself fall back into the strong warm arms that held him against a warm chest.

Ahsan knelt near Sherlock, "Oh my God, oh my God. Is John Watson not dead? He's breathing, yes. Yes? But, he's hurt? He should be yelling at us. He should be very angry by now," whispered Ahsan to the detective. Ahsan shook in the cold drizzle. His sodden clothes clung to the young man. A crude, blood-soaked dressing was tied around his forehead.

"He's breathing, Ahsan. No thanks to these bumblers," said the detective.

John heard Ahsan's muffled voice, babbling about how John should be angry. Why? Why should John be angry? Ahsan's voice was so far away. But still, that meant, that Ahsan was safe. And Sherlock was holding him. OK then. Good. No reason to be angry. Brilliant.

Foreign arms tore John away from Sherlock. John opened his eyes. His vision was blurry and it was dark. Nevertheless, he saw Mary Morstan. Mary took him away from Sherlock; she claimed to be a medic. Now John should be angry.

John snorted, which set off more coughing. "Ahm," he coughed. "I'm da doc" violent coughing interrupted him, "doctor," complained John.

When Mary tried to pet his head, John tried to push her away. Then she blinded him with her torch. John punched at her yet somehow his hand missed her entirely. Bloody hell.

She made him sick with her nasty caresses. Sick. Dizzy. Nausea. His head spun. I am going to be really sick again, thought John. He closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to not be sick.

"I think we should get John to a hospital," said Mary, blowing a loose wet strand of hair out of her eyes.

"No," said Sherlock and Agent Mitchell in unison.

Sherlock turned his eyes briefly to evaluate the handsome black man.

"What do you know?" asked the detective.

"I don't know anything for sure, dammit. But this isn't right. From day one, none of this has gone down right," said Mitchell. "And the car that forced you off the road wasn't one of ours. There's a leak at the Agency, or worse," admitted the large man.

"Mitchell," warned Cochrane.

" Cochrane, whoever was in that car tracked Watson same as us; they were getting real-time Intel from inside. It has to be one of us, or Jones or the agents with him,"

"But Johnny needs a hospital," persisted Mary, caressing Sherlock's blogger. Sherlock wanted to slap her.

"If John goes to hospital, he'll be a sitting duck for whoever wants him," said the consulting detective. Mitchell nodded.

"You're in charge, Mitch. It's your call. But decide fast. Jones will be here soon," said Cochrane, a shorter, balding man.

"Mitchell, we have to follow orders," said Morstan.

"And if following orders means letting the mission fail; what then? And how 'bout if that means letting your old army buddy die?" asked Mitchell sharply.

Mary frowned down at John Watson. She looked like a blond river rat, thought Sherlock. He moved forward to retrieve his blogger.

Sod this, thought John; they can talk themselves into the bloody grave. Mary's old army buddy pushed himself up, making himself dizzy.

John shoved Mary's arms away, none too gently; then he lurched into an unsteady stand. They all make me sick. Oh God, I am going to be sick.

Sherlock reached out to John, only to have his hands knocked away. John stumbled into the underbrush; they could all hear the sound of John being violently ill again.

"Where is that chip?" Sherlock asked harshly, turning back to Mitchell and trying to ignore the muffled sounds of his John being sick.

"I don't know. Jones inserted it. He didn't tell any of us where he put it." He looked up with the others at the sound of an approaching siren.

"They're here," said Cochrane unnecessarily.

"Hello? John's getting away," said Mary urgently. "I know John, and he'll make a run for it. I say we stay with him, and if Jones tries anything, we'll protect him."

"Bull. We couldn't stop Jones; he's got all the brass on his side, and then there's the guys from that other car …" argued Mitchell.

"Probably one of Dimitri's gang," offered Sherlock.

"Shit," said Morstan. "This can't get much worse."

"And where is that Ahsan? You know, Holmes, Morstan's right, you're about to get left behind. Look, far as I'm concerned, you guys can try running on your own, and right now, we'll even try to cover for you. But, you gotta find and eliminate that chip, before Jones gets lucky," said Mitchell, pushing Sherlock into the woods.

Sherlock ran into the dark woods. The only sound he heard was water dripping from the trees. He easily followed John's path to the bushes where John had been sick, but now it seemed that both John and Ahsan had vanished. The sleuth walked forward silently, part if his mind listened in the dark for clues to John's whereabouts. The rest of his mind tried to deduce where Jones had put the chip that tracked John's movements, exposing Sherlock's blogger to danger and death.

* * *

"Run, John Watson, the CIA and Russians are coming. I heard their own agent, Mitchell, he said so," said Ahsan, who dragged John away from the river's edge.

"No. No, we have to wait for Sherlock," said John, already out of breath and still confused. "Can't leave Sherlock."

"But the pretty lady Agent said to run. She told me so herself. I think you are in so much danger that we better keep moving," said Ahsan, hauling the shorter man further into the forest.

"I don't trust her," said John, as Ahsan pulled him down into a gully.

"Well, I do," asserted Ahsan.

"Fine, but… But, Ahsan, haven't you heard of 'Leave No Man Behind?' I am certainly not leaving anyone behind, and especially not Sherlock. What if they take him prisoner? And even if they let him go, how will he find us?" John almost yelled, his voice raspy. Then he started coughing some more.

"Sherlock Holmes is a genius, and he can most definitely find us," said the confident young man.

John literally dug his heels into the ground. Ahsan tugged at the stubborn army doctor in vain, "How? How is Sherlock supposed to find us in the dark?" asked John pursing his lips.

"By listening for you," snapped the consulting detective. He had to get them to safety. He had to find the chip.

"John, you breathe so loud, I could shoot you with my eyes closed." The army doctor slapped his hand over his mouth involuntarily.

"Like the dwarf, in Lord of the Rings," offered Ahsan helpfully. Earning himself a deep glare from the smaller man.

"And you argue with him like an old woman, Ahsan," chided the detective irritably. "I'm sure everyone by the river can hear you both. Now let's attempt to escape quietly. Ahsan, no talking. John, stop breathing so loud."

"Excuse me, Mr. Genius, but I happen to be recovering from a near drowning and multiple contusions and …"

"John," said the detective, taking his blogger's arm in an iron grip. "I expect you to breathe quietly and to stop arguing. Also, no more coughing or regurgitation. It's much too loud."

"Fine. Fine, I'll just magically make it all go away," muttered John. He yanked his arm away from Sherlock and stormed up the side of the gully. He quickly tripped over a log. The fall, of course, made him nauseous. He tried to be sick as quietly as possible.

Ahsan grabbed John's arm and began leading him through the trees again, following the irate detective.

"What is wrong with him?" asked the young man quietly.

"You better be quiet, Ahsan. Maybe he's pissed about something or has some genius idea or maybe he's rearranging the smoking room in his mind palace or..."

"Or I'm trying to think. Shut up, John. You're putting me off," said the consulting detective.

John remained silent but angrily flipped off the love of his life.

"I heard that, John," said the detective who mentally reviewed everyplace that the chip could have been placed.

Sherlock had personally examined every inch of John, he had even examined his blogger's groin during the Subway Incident (Which John called, 'making love' Why did he call it 'making love'? Would John want to 'make love' again soon? File it away for later review.)

Surely they would not have made John swallow it while he was unconscious? Or perhaps they had? This puzzle was difficult and frustrating. Failure meant danger for John. The consulting detective felt increasingly frantic and took it out on his hapless companions.

Two hours later, they still followed Sherlock who led them south, along a road bordering the Delaware River. The drizzle had let up, but clouds still blanketed the sky. The sky occasionally lit up with distant lightning.

Ahsan had his arm around John's waist. He led the exhausted doctor and supported him when he lost his footing, which was becoming more and more frequent.

"John, your breathing has improved but your faltering steps are slowing us down. You know your leg pain is psychosomatic, use your brain to override that weakness…"

"You are an unmitigated ass, Sherlock Holmes. You know that? You know nothing about my leg," snapped the doctor who was tired, in pain and now humiliated. "If you had been paying any attention, you would know that my knee has been repeatedly injured over the last week starting with a nasty laceration from when I jumped off the train. It should have been stitched up but it wasn't."

"And it's been reinjured, over and over including during the bloody crash tonight. On top of all that, I think the bloody wound is probably infected. This pain is not psychosomatic, Mr. Genius," hissed the furious doctor. "The pain is due to real injuries and…Christ! What, what are you up to now?"

Sherlock had turned and grabbed John by both of his arms, rudely pushing Ahsan aside. "Of course! John, pull down your trousers at once."

"Dear God, not again. You bloody tosser!" exclaimed John, trying to slap the detective away. Sherlock quickly overpowered his weakened blogger. He grabbed John's wrists in one hand.

"John, you've once again led me to the answer. As usual, you are brilliant as a conductor of light. You are also feverish. You should share these things with me," said the detective, with a tilt of his head.

"Stop fighting me, John. You are clearly in no condition to resist me." Sherlock had unzipped John's fly and pulled down his doctor's sodden jeans.

"Oh my God, shall I strike him, John Watson?" asked Ahsan, putting his fists up.

"Oh stop it, Ahsan. It's the chip, the chip," said the detective, practically quivering with excitement.

Half-naked again, John backed up and sat heavily in a pile pine needles. He leaned back against an old evergreen whose branches near the ground were dead. At least the upper branches kept off some of the rain.

"Stand down, Ahsan. I think I understand him, maybe. Anyway, it's best just to let him have his way," said John resignedly.

"Yes, let me have my way," agreed Sherlock. "Also, I need a light."

"I need a cigarette," said John.

"John, don't be ridiculous. You don't smoke," said the detective holding his phone over John's knee in an attempt to provide light.

"You have a pack of cigarettes hidden in your back pocket and a lighter. If you give me a cigarette, I'll make you a nice torch, and then you'll have plenty of light to torture me by," offered John.

Sherlock quickly dug out his sodden cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and gave the damp, smoldering cigarette to John.

John reached around the pine tree for a large, dry branch. He broke it off and lit it with the lighter.

"Ahsan, see if you can get a couple more branches. If they have some dried sap, they'll burn even brighter," said John, breathing the cigarette smoke into his mouth only. Ahsan gathered several branches while he kept a watchful eye on the madman accosting John Watson.

"Brilliant, John, very resourceful. Ahsan, hold the torch with one hand and hold John's leg still with your other hand. John, this will be uncomfortable," warned Sherlock, who immediately began pressing and palpating John's knee, under the fitful light of the burning brand.

In pain, John drew in a ragged breath of smoke and choked on the smoke.

"Ha, I know it is here. Right here in your knee, John. It's so obvious," said Sherlock. "I am an idiot for missing it for so long."

"Before you torture me to death, which by the way, is against the Geneva Convention. Please explain," requested the doctor stoically.

"Dear Lord, do you never think, John? I mean really think? You had a 'nasty laceration" and no doubt the jeans were also torn open, yes?" said Sherlock. "I'm certain that it took no time at all for Jones to insert this chip under your skin while you were briefly unconscious."

The army doctors eyes widened in comprehension, then he peered down at his exposed knee. He suddenly closed his eyes and bit down on the end of his cigarette as more pain overwhelmed him.

"I think that this is hurting John Watson," said Ahsan, who also lit a fresh branch for more light.

"Never mind, John is very strong," said the detective. "I have it! With the swelling, it is hard to see, and Jones must have pushed it far enough towards the vastus medialis that it should have stayed hidden indefinitely. Still, it is quite easy to feel under the swelling."

"Well, John, there's nothing for it, but to remove it," Sherlock said brightly. "This may be difficult, John."

This was bad. This was very, very bad, thought John. The last time Sherlock said difficult, John ended up in the boot, nearly drowned… Right, never mind, thought John.

The army doctor forced his best fake smile and said equally brightly, "Fine. It's all fine. Go right ahead…Christ! Sherl!" John dropped his cigarette and shoved his hand over his mouth to keep silent despite the pain, while the detective began trying to push the chip out.

After a minute, John's hand shot out and swiped the detective's hands away from his leg. "Sherlock, knife. Use a knife. In fact, give me the knife," said John trying to keep his voice steady. At least the dark would hide his watering eyes. Stupid allergies, thought John.

"Yes, you're right, John." Sherlock pulled out his pocketknife, which John immediately snatched away.

John took a deep breath. "Ahsan, go sit down, before you pass out. Sherlock, you hold the light with one hand and hold my leg still with your other hand, please. And I need another cigarette. No don't light it. Too bad you don't have a cigar; I'd really rather have a cigar," muttered John, biting down on the cigarette.

John tested the blade across his arm. He put the knife into burning brand for half a minute. Then, his lips tightly pursed around the cigarette, John made a small incision. He inserted the blade under the skin and popped out the capsule containing the chip.

Sherlock had held John's leg firmly, his mouth a grim line while he watched his blogger cut himself. Sooner or later, Jones would pay for John's suffering not to mention the danger in which he had placed John.

Sherlock pocketed the chip and tied strips of his shirt around the wound, which seeped blood and pus. Biting his lower lip, Sherlock used his thumb to gently wipe the tears off John's face.

"Aren't you going to throw that bloody chip away?" asked John, embarrassed by his weak sounding voice and his watery eyes.

"Eventually, John. But first, we need to go a few more miles. Can you manage?" asked the detective.

"Sure, let's go," John stood up and his leg buckled. Sherlock caught his blogger.

"Perhaps you should accept my assistance, John. I'm here to help," said the detective disingenuously. John stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. Ahsan shook his head skeptically.

"Come along, John. Time is of the essence." Sherlock put his arm around John's right shoulder to help bear some of John's weight. He began pulling John along.

"I wish you and Ahsan would stop dragging me around like a sack of potatoes," complained the doctor.

"Yes. Yes," said the detective dismissively as he tugged his blogger alongside him.

John was winded after only a couple of miles. "Aren't you going to complain about my breathing?" asked John,

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You have to breathe. After nearly drowning, I am relieved that you seem to have recovered so quickly," said the detective. John and Ahsan exchanged incredulous looks. "Ahsan, we will make better time if you support John's other side. Put your arm around his waist so that you do not disturb his shoulder; it was injured in the war."

"John, I do not understand why you are pursing your lips and scrunching your face at Ahsan. Have I said anything untoward?" asked Sherlock with wide, innocent eyes.

"No. Of course not," said John. "You are a model of tact and diplomacy."

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock with a small grin. He was pleased with the compliment.

John didn't have the energy or the heart to explain the sarcasm to the smiling detective. He quietly allowed his friends to drag him like a sack of potatoes to Sherlock's destination.

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

******Chapter 13**

**Rated M (for 18 years and older) (really)**

"Run faster, John!" yelled Sherlock, who clung to the back of the rail car. It was speeding up, and John was slowing down. "Dammit, John, I thought you were in the army. Run."

John sprinted furiously, his arms pumping. He sprang at the retreating car and grabbed hold of the bottom rung of the ladder. The train dragged him along the track; dust flew up into his face, blinding and choking him.

Groaning loudly, John forced his left arm up, despite the protests of his shoulder. He clamped it to the ladder. He grunted and reached his right arm up to the next rung.

He started when a large hand fastened itself on his wrist.

Sherlock reached down the ladder and grabbed a hold of his blogger's wrist. The detective pulled until his blogger could stand on the ladder, swaying with the railcar.

"That was stupid, John. You could have been hurt," yelled Sherlock.

"Well, it's all your fault. You didn't give me any warning about jumping a train. Some of us are not abnormally tall with long mutated legs, some of us…"

"Oh my God, you guys can bicker when you are in the luggage car," said Ahsan from the doorway. He tugged on the consulting detective's jacket, and Sherlock took a firm grip on John's hoodie.

John clambered ungracefully up the ladder and lurched into the baggage compartment. Ahsan fell in behind him, clutching at the luggage racks to remain upright. Sherlock stalked gracefully into the car, like a bloody panther, thought John sourly.

"Oh my God, that was exciting," said Ahsan. "I have never jumped a train before. And you are sure that the conductor will not find us, Sherlock Holmes?"

"I have purchased the conductor's silence at a great price, and I have promised him that we will not tamper with the baggage," the detective assured Ahsan.

"Well, this has been a most very exciting day. I am now a real for sure blond according to the hairdresser, Cyndi. And she was most willing to have coffee with me. I think though, she liked you more at first John Watson, until Sherlock Holmes scared her. Too bad for you, but good news for me. She gave me her address too. Yes, a very hot babe," Ahsan looked from the short angry blond to the tall aloof red-headed detective. "Still the train chase was the most fun. Well, for me it was fun. Yes and I shall put Cyndi's addresses in my new phone, now. Yes." Even Ahsan felt the chill in the baggage car emanating from the furious blond.

His lips pressed together, John glared up at the tall, now auburn-haired detective.

Imperturbable, Sherlock smoothed the front of his suit jacket (Expensive wool but off the rack, really barely tolerable. At least he had found a tailor to make some simple alterations. And the Egyptian cotton shirt was also disappointing…) Sherlock sighed in dissatisfaction and once more smoothed the front of his jacket.

John still glared at his best friend. "You could have told me the plan. You were already on the train, so it was no skin off your teeth. But once again, I have to chase after you, or risk being left behind. Just once, you could have given me some warning. My knee…"

"Not that excuse again. Please John, it's been two days and..."

"I hate you. You know that? I really do. You don't know anything about my knee. You aren't a doctor. I'm the doctor!" said John triumphantly. "I assure you, any patient of mine with a set of cuts, bruises and that much swelling would be on antibiotics and bed rest. Not sprinting after speeding trains because some bloody madman thinks he knows everything." John stood at parade rest, fists at the ready, daring the detective to say anything else.

Sherlock tilted his head and evaluated the angry bleached-blond man in front of him. Sherlock had been prepared to continue the argument but the gel-styled, spiky blond hair on his blogger begged to be touched and combed.

Sherlock rapidly checked his growing files on relationships. A passionate kiss would work wonders, obviously, but not in front of Ahsan. John was simply too modest. However, John was almost always disarmed by a seemingly sincere apology. It would work, especially when immediately followed by The Pout.

Sherlock schooled his features into a semblance of remorse. He frowned and lowered his brows. "John, I'm sorry. I should have told you about the plan earlier. Obviously, I had to board the train to bribe the conductor, but I did not plan adequately for your boarding. I also regret that your knee is injured. Although I did offer to take you to the A and E in Virginia Beach." The detective allowed his lower lip to push out in a small pout.

John narrowed his eyes in suspicion; then whirled to glare furiously at a giggling Ahsan. "What?" he demanded, his brow furrowed in frustration.

"Nothing. I am going to sleep, unless you want me to stand first watch, John Watson?" asked the young man. He smiled innocently, and then yawned hugely.

Somewhat mollified, John nodded. "No you get some sleep. We haven't gotten a decent amount of sleep since we left the City of New York. I'll wake you when it's your watch."

Sherlock was about to protest that John's watch schedule was unnecessary, but, fortunately, remembered his goal, touching John's hair. "John, if you think it's that important, I will now alternate watches with you and Ahsan."

John glared with renewed suspicion at his erstwhile flatmate. "No thank you Sherlock. Ahsan and I have agreed to split the watches. You're job is, um, to think." John did not add that he did not trust Sherlock to take his watch duties seriously.

Ahsan cleared boxes and parcels off of a wide shelf. Using a spare shirt as a pillow, he laid down on the shelf as if it was a bunk. He turned to the railcar's wall and covered himself with the crinkly, silver space blanket that John Watson insisted that they each carry. The blanket was noisy but warm. John Watson had demanded a couple of changes in his small team

John had instituted watches after they all fell asleep at a train yard and were nearly arrested for vagrancy. Also, as the military specialist and as the doctor, John had also insisted that they carry packs filled with necessities such as food, water, dry clothing, money, space blankets, rain ponchos, knives, matches, torches, spare torches, batteries, spare batteries, insect repellant, emergency prepaid cell phones, first aid kits and chocolate bars. John liked chocolate on missions.

John pulled a bottle of water out of his pack and a cigar. He also liked cigars on missions. He stood by the door and watched the miles fall away in the dark. As usual, the cigar hung unlit in his mouth. John only rarely smoked his cigars.

He sensed Sherlock's warmth behind him. He felt the tentative touch of long fingers on his shoulder. They traveled ever so slowly up his neck. The fingers settled on his jaw, and lips moved over his ear.

"Put your cigar away for now, John. I promise not to let you fall asleep on your watch." Sherlock's hot breath burned John's ear; the lips coolly brushed over his ear and neck, sending chills down the doctor's spine.

Sherlock gently removed the cigar from John's lips. The detective's body tensed as he fantasized about John's lips pulling off him and not just the cigar. He slid the cigar suggestively into his blogger's front jeans pocket.

"I still hate you," muttered John, even as he tilted his neck to allow for more of the feathery kisses.

"I seriously doubt that, John. Yesterday you said you loved me. You said you loved me, when you thanked me for pulling you out of the car and when you thanked me for finding the chip." Sherlock's voice was a quiet bass murmur as his lips trailed back up John's neck to that oh, so sensitive spot, below John's ear. "You said you loved me when I bought you Starbuck's coffee and that blue jumper you wanted so badly."

John fingered the new blue jumper under his hoodie. He really liked that jumper. "You're trying to manipulate me," muttered John. "I know when I'm being manipulated, Sherlock Holmes."

"Problem?" asked the detective. His hand was in John's hair, gently pulling and separating the soft blond spikes. Sherlock reveled in the soft hair, it still smelled of the shampoo and bleach the hairdresser had used.

The hairdresser had been quite acceptable, once she realized that John clearly belonged to Sherlock. He had been forced to make a few subtle threats, that fortunately John did not hear. He had eventually allowed Ahsan to take her out for coffee as a reward for her coöperation.

John finally relaxed under Sherlock's caresses. He leaned back as a long arm snaked over his chest.

The shorter blond turned in Sherlock's arm and reached his own arms around the detective's trim waist. He tilted his head up, and he was rewarded with soft, gently caressing lips. John breathed a soft moan and suddenly the lips pressed harder, hungry and demanding.

Resistance is futile, chanted a voice in the back of John's head. John gave into the manipulations of his partner, joining in the now rough kiss. John pulled that pouty lip in and sucked on it, nipping it gently with his teeth, marking it as his own.

John felt the need to mark his lover. He hadn't liked the way that boy at Starbucks had flirted with his detective, blatantly staring at Sherlock's lips. And right in front of John. When it was obvious that John and Sherlock were a couple. That cute hairdresser knew right away; she hadn't flirted with anyone. Nice young girl. But that stupid, tall, handsome barista, he must have been blind; at least the cappuccino had been pretty good.

Sherlock had his blogger pressed back against the swaying wall of the railcar; his hands were entwined in the hair that had teased him all day, the hair that secretly reminded him of a hedgehog.

John clung tightly to the thin detective. He reached one hand up to bring his lover's face down. He kissed across the high arch of a sculpted cheekbone, then he reached the porcelain-like neck. Oh, God. That neck needed to be kissed and sucked and bit. It needed to be marked.

"John," Sherlock breathed softly in his ear. "I am beginning to think you have a train kink."

John growled softly in response, as he claimed the smooth white neck for himself. "John, there is an unused office at the front of this car. You can stand watch there. Be there in ten minutes," ordered the consulting detective.

Bemused, John watched as the lanky detective stopped at his pack. "John, I am going to make sure that the conductor is honoring his part of the bargain. I will also explore the train to be sure all is well," he said softly.

What the hell? Very bothered and very aroused, John took out his cigar. Oh dear Lord, the very shape of the cigar bothered him too, especially when he put it in his mouth.

When it seemed like ten minutes had passed John walked slowly through the long baggage car. Ahsan was still snoring in the back of the car. At the front, John found a small office or large closet across from the lavatory.

Inside the office, there was a dusty old desk and some supplies stored in boxes. Even with his torch, John wasn't so sure about this so-called office. It was distressingly similar to a closet. There had to be spiders in here, possibly black widow spiders.

Right. John turned to beat a hasty retreat but his exit was blocked by a long, tall shadow that smelled of spices and tea. The shadow spoke in subterranean rumbles that matched the rhythmic grumbles of the train. "What is it about trains, that turns you on, Dr. Watson. I can smell your arousal from here."

Oh my God, oh my God, thought John. His thoughts slowly derailing. I want him, and I want him now.

The shadow reached out long arms and lifted John up on to the desk. He took the torch and set it on a shelf."What do you want, John? I'll tell you what I want. I want you. I want you any way that I can have you, and I want all of you. Is there anything special that you want, mon petit herisson?"*

"What did you say? What?" asked John, overwhelmed by his desire and confused by the exotic French language.

"I think, I'll start," said Sherlock. The determined detective unzipped John's fly, and John's erection tented his pants. "If you didn't have a train kink before, I think you will after this, John. I know I will."

Sherlock pulled John's jeans and pants down past his knees; then the detective elegantly folded his knees. He looked up in the dark with his almond-shaped eyes. He smiled at the lust-filled man on the desk.

Sherlock kissed up John's soft inner thigh; he inhaled John's musk and tightened his hold on his blogger's hips. John's hand curled restlessly in the detective's hair. Sherlock continued the kisses up to the base of his doctor's very stiff member. He slowly licked upwards, feeling the hot vein under his tongue. He looked up again; his blogger stared down, pupils blown, with a fist shoved in his mouth to silence his groans. It was too much for the detective.

He pulled John's hand away from his mouth and placed his own long talented fingers in his boyfriend's mouth. John began to suck on the digits, with closed eyes.

John surrendered fully to his lover. He sucked on Sherlock's fingers. He wondered vaguely if this would be too much for him, if John would suddenly lose control and release like an inexperienced teen.

The detective had risen and was unfastening his own pants. He pulled John forward so that he perched on the edge of the desk. Their erections now rubbed together, causing both men to rut into each other. Sherlock pulled his fingers out of John's hot mouth and began to circle John's opening with a slick finger.

The tall man caught John's soft moan in his own mouth with an open kiss. He bit John's lip harder than before as he inserted a finger inside John.

The soldier tensed momentarily at the foreign sensation. He'd known that this would happen someday with Sherlock, but now, on a train? And it hurt a little, and then the finger started to move, and God, oh God there was a second finger. It was slick; somehow the crafty detective had gotten hold of some lube.

John reached out to stroke Sherlock's erection. It was so hard and leaking already. He had to concentrate on not moaning outloud. Not waking Ahsan. Not waking half the train because Sherlock was touching something that sent his nerves into overload. Oh God, was that his prostate? Oh dear God.

"Oh God, Oh God, ohhh Sherlock? Are you, can I?" John couldn't speak anymore. All circuits were down. Catastrophic network failure…

"Shhh, John. Is this alright, John? I can stop, if you want?" asked Sherlock releasing his grip on John's hip to cup his face, his precious face that was scrunched up with desire, with that crease running down between his eyes.

"Oh, no no, Oh God no, don't stop" keened John, rocking with the train.

Sherlock pressed his lips against the worry crease that clearly also meant intense passion. Then he engulfed John's mouth, to stifle the soft sounds coming from John. The moans he made for Sherlock, and only Sherlock.

He inserted a third finger, stretching and preparing his boyfriend, for him, for Sherlock. He rubbed John's prostate one last time with gliding fingers. His John shuddered and trembled from the touch.

Then he withdrew them. He pulled out a condom, and John grabbed it. He wanted to put it on Sherlock; he slid the condom over the erection that suddenly seemed frightfully enormous. 'That is going in where?' asked a tiny part of his brain. Shut up and follow orders, yelled the rest of his brain. The orders were clear. Captain John Watson should kiss the hell out of his detective and wait patiently for the incoming missile strike.

Sherlock had never had anyone want to put the condom on for him; it was somehow touching. "John," he moaned into his blogger's mouth. It was almost always the little things about John that undid the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Sherlock lined up his well-lubricated member and began to slowly, slowly enter his boyfriend. It took all his control not to shove it in and gain his own release. But dear Lord, John was tight. He was so tight it nearly hurt Sherlock, and it turned him on so much, that his arousal began to ache.

"John," Sherlock repeated.

John suddenly buried his head in Sherlock's neck. It hurt, it bloody hurt a lot, thought the soldier. Maybe he wasn't really gay. Maybe this was a mistake. Oh, God. It's a bit late for that thought, soldier.

Sherlock had bit his good shoulder, hard, and he had John in his hand stroking him. Oh God. Oh God he was biting John's neck so hard it would bruise. Everyone would see. Oh, God, that enormous dick was inside him and moving slowly and it was good. It was better than good. Oh God, I like this. Oh, God, I am Gay. Yes. Yes!

Sherlock looked up momentarily nonplussed; John's face was still buried in Sherlock's shoulder. But John was fist pumping with one hand and softly chanting, "Yes, yes. I'm gay. I'm bloody, fucking gay. Yes. Oh, God. Yes. I'm gay. I'm bloody, fucking gay."

His blogger seemed to have gone from unsure to ecstatic; Sherlock deduced that he should speed up his movements. John wasn't going to last long now, his hot member throbbed and began to leak pre-cum. Sherlock's thrusts became hard and insistent. He tugged John closer and raised his boyfriend's legs up over Sherlock's shoulders. Now with each deep thrust he hit John's sweet spot.

"Oh God. You feel so good John. So, ahhh. So tight. Oh, God. Yes, cum for me, John. For me," groaned the detective. John's hips bucked, and his erection throbbed in his lover's hand. John moaned into his partner's shoulder. Sherlock stroked John to completion, the cum flooding his large hand. John still muttered his incoherent victory chant into Sherlock's shirt.

John's muscles had tightened around Sherlock; his bucking had stimulated the taller man unbearably. Sherlock thrust a few more times before he felt himself releasing into his boyfriend, his partner. Sherlock's mind went blank, and he fell, spent, onto John.

Sherlock's hard drive came back on-line. He was lying on top of his dazed and panting blogger. He realized that he was just as dazed as John, and he was panting even harder than John. He made a move to stand, but John's hands had twisted into the expensive new shirt, and he wasn't letting go.

Sherlock assumed that John must be able to breathe, despite Sherlock's weight on top of him. Still, John was twisted into a pretzel shape, with his legs in the air. That would hurt John, eventually.

"Let me up, John. I want to get us dressed," Sherlock stood, slowly withdrawing from inside his boyfriend. He wiped his hands with some paper towels. He wiped off John as well. Then towels and condom all went into a convenient plastic bag. Sherlock congratulated himself on being prepared for his handsome boyfriend.

Then Sherlock pulled his blogger off the desk. As predicted, John's knee gave out, Sherlock smoothly caught his blogger with a superior smirk. John pulled up his pants and jeans. Then he looked up to see if Sherlock was laughing at him.

"John," Sherlock bent to kiss him. Right, not laughing at him. Good. Bloody brilliant, in fact.

"John, was that the first time you've been with a man?" asked Sherlock cautiously, still holding his blogger close as the train swayed back and forth.

"Well, yes, unless you count the Subway Incident," said John.

" I thought that was 'making love', John," said the detective.

"Well it was, it is, for me. It's making love, I mean not an incident. But this is also the first time I've been shagged by another bloke. Um, made love with a bloke. Oh God, you know…" John stopped because he was blithering.

"Why, did I do it wrong?" added John, concerned.

"Um, no. You were perfect John. Brilliant. I, ah, well, I'm glad you're gay now, John. It works out well for our relationship," said the smug detective.

"Oh God. I was talking out loud. Sorry. I must have sounded like an idiot. Sorry," John blithered more.

"Oh no, you sounded unbearably hot John. Don't look like that. Your face is doing that scrunching thing. Is it so surprising that I find you unbelievably sexy? I like having coitus with you, and I like that you talk during coitus, and I very much like that you let yourself go with me," Sherlock's voice dropped lower and lower. He smoothed the front of his off-the-rack suit. "I like being able to, ah, lose control with you, John."

"Oh...Well, I guess, I don't hate you," muttered John. He kissed his lover slowly and thoroughly. "I guess I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock pulled his hedgehog, ah, boyfriend closer, and kissed his spiky head. "You are mine, John Watson. Remember that. You belong to me."

**A/N** This chapter was a pointless bit of smut, but the boys were tired of running around and getting hurt. Plot will continue eventually.

*mon petit herisson-my little hedgehog (disclaimer: I don't speak French and apologize for any errors. If I have made a mistake, please PM me and I will correct it.)

**Disclaimer**- I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**Rated M**

John Watson stepped off the Amtrak train at Union Station in Dallas in the State of Texas. According to his ID's, he was Peter Franklin and a British writer traveling for recreation in the United States.

John felt grateful to have traveled for nearly a day and a half on a normal passenger train with normal luggage and normal clothes. Well, almost normal clothes, Sherlock had seemingly developed a new hobby called 'lets dress up John'. Today, Sherlock had his blogger dressed in khakis and a black tee-shirt with an expensive black linen and silk sports coat. John didn't really recognize himself in the mirror anymore. Fancy clothes, bleached blond hair and expensive shades were not really his style.

John picked up his soft-sided designer suit case and the backpack that carried the items he felt were really important (his new blue jumper, emergency money, food and water, hand torches, spare hand torches, spare batteries for the torches, lube and condoms.) John blushed as he mentally ran down his list of essential items. Still, the lube and condoms had come in pretty handy the other night. And you never knew when the torches would be needed again.

John pretended not to see the tall, thin, auburn-headed detective who traveled under the name of Sven Sigerson. He was dressed in his usual fitted suit and button down shirt despite his bitter complaints over their lack of tailoring. Shite. The detective was glaring; he had caught John looking at him-again. John lowered his head and headed toward the taxi queue. The soldier very carefully did not look at Ahsan,aka Ali Kahn, who stood only two meters away looking straight at John.

John could not help but observe that both Sherlock and Ahsan effortlessly got taxis while he still waited. In frustration, John boarded a bus that took him many miles away from the Ritz-Carlton Hotel where Sherlock had booked rooms. A kind, old lady, with lavender hair, took pity on him and finally pointed him to the right bus.

Perhaps he should have texted Sherlock to advise him about John's unavoidable delay. However, John scrupulously observed the Sherlock mandated **No Unnecessary Mobile Phone Usage **rule, since the detective had thrown a fit when John had phoned Mrs. Hudson the other day. The protracted arguments resulting from that phone call had resulted in Sherlock flouncing around the hotel room for hours and John sulking forever in a Starbucks in Little Rock, in the State of Arkansas. The lube and condoms had, in fact, been an integral part of John and Sherlock's reconciliation. The memory of said reconciliation distracted John, and he missed his stop.

He finally got off the bus and walked several blocks in the hot sun to reach the Ritz Carlton Hotel. He only requested directions three times.

John, AKA Peter Franklin, approached the front desk to register. As he signed in, he was given several messages from Messrs Sigerson and Kahn. John glanced at the messages and sighed. His so-called team was angry at him-again.

John went up to his luxury suite with heavy feet and a heavy heart. His luggage felt pretty heavy too. Naturally, the bellhop had not seen fit to assist John Watson who was apparently invisible to taxi drivers, bellhops and even doormen.

John fumbled with the keycard and finally gained entrance into his room. It was indeed luxurious, with a king size bed and opulent furnishings. It came complete with an irate consulting detective who lunged out of nowhere to confront his errant blogger.

"Is it remotely possible for you to follow simple instructions, John?" demanded Sherlock, looming over the shorter blond. "All I asked, was that you get off the train, avoid contact with me or Ahsan, obtain a taxi and come to the hotel. It should have taken ten minutes, twenty at the most. And I saw you staring at me at the station. Do never stop to think? Do you ever use that tiny brain for anything other than ogling large-breasted women and locating the nearest pub?"

"Well since I ogled you, are you saying that you are a large-breasted woman?" John awarded himself two points as Sherlock's eyes goggled at that remarkable display of logic. "And I did not look for pubs, which they don't have pubs in America, they have bars," said John wearily. "But I could really use a pint now." He dropped his luggage in the middle of the room.

"And did it occur to you to use your phone or to even turn it on?" demanded the pale, angry detective.

"You said, **No Unnecessary Mobile Phone Usage, **so I turned off m'phone," said John stripping off his shoes, trousers and jacket.

"You are an idiot, John Watson, an idiot like Anderson. You never stop to think….Blah. Blah, blah, blah..." John did not listen to the rest of the tirade. Once he was an equated with an idiot like Anderson, any further attempt at discussion was bound to end in a furious argument. No doubt, the skinny git was bored and looking for a fight.

Rather than argue with the furious man, John unlocked the complimentary refreshment center, took out a beer, and then locked himself in the luxurious bathroom, which included a large inviting tub. He ignored the escalating protests of his team-member/lover. Instead, John ran the tub and filled it with some bath oil. Sadly, his beer was already half gone,

John stepped into the tub as Sherlock burst in. John was only surprised that the detective had waited this long before picking the lock. Sherlock had problems respecting personal space.

Luckily for John, the sight of his completely naked blond blogger stepping into the tub short-circuited Sherlock's hard-wiring. Sherlock took a moment to admire the well-muscled legs attached so conveniently to the rounded buttocks, and all nicely dusted with very light-brown hair. Then they disappeared into the water. Water droplets clung to the hairs on John's chest, inviting more observation.

"John," Sherlock managed to croak out.

John ignored his now flushed companion and laid back into the tub for a good soak. "If you insist on staying, Sherlock, please bring me another beer. Help yourself while you're at it," John closed his eyes, relaxing in the hot, chamomile and lavender-scented water.

"I worried when you were late, John," admitted the detective who quietly sat on the edge of the tub. "What happened? No, I know what happened. You, somehow, failed to get a taxi. Judging from the grime on your trousers and shoes, you chose to board a bus. As usual, you took the wrong one and got lost. Judging by your hot, sweaty and wrinkled appearance, you walked several blocks to finally arrive at our hotel, nearly two hours late."

"Yes, indeed, Sherlock, brilliant as always. Still, I'm sorry I worried you," muttered John, with his eyes still closed. He finished his first beer and debated with himself whether a second beer was really a good idea anyway.

He heard a splash and frowned, and then he felt the large feet and skinny legs of his lover settling alongside him.

"You might prefer leaning against me, Sherlock. That faucet won't feel very good against your back," said John, the second beer forgotten.

A moderate amount of water splashed onto the floor before Sherlock was nestled between John's legs, leaning against the doctor's strong chest. John absently rubbed the thin but tightly muscled arms of his lover who rested his auburn head on John's good shoulder. John's hands moved over to caress the chest of his lover.

John realized that Sherlock's neck was extended only inches from his mouth. He began to kiss and suckle the neck of the beautiful man in front of him.

In the end, John did not get to relax in his luxurious tub. The lube and condoms were also deemed unnecessary since John and his detective brought each other to orgasm with their hands, soap and scented bath oils.

However, John was forced to request several extra towels since the bathroom floor was quite flooded with the chamomile and lavender-scented water.

**A/N** Sorry, short chapter. I will post the next chapter very soon.

Thank you to everyone who follows this story and especially to those who have reviewed my work. I love hearing your comments, suggestions and constructive criticism. Thank you! Thank you!

**Disclaimer**- I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Rated M (Just for starters there's lots of swearing-you've been warned)**

John entered the lobby and looked for his companions. He noticed Ahsan pacing nervously, a note in his hand.

Captain John H. Watson was no slouch at deductions after living and working with the World's Only Consulting Detective, so he squared his shoulders and prepared himself for bad news. He marched toward the nervous young man who wore expensive grey trousers and vest over a red silk shirt. The outfit was probably worth more than a couple of weeks of Ahsan's usual wages, thought John.

"Oh my God, John Watson, he wouldn't wait even though I said you didn't want anymore bloody, damn notes," said the worried young man.

"At ease, Ahsan," said Captain Watson without thinking. "Please let me have the bloody, damn note."

**John,**

**I have unexpectedly run into an old University friend, Victor Trevor. I am curious about how he has fared over the years. I am sure you will understand why I wish to spend the night with him. **

**I suggest meeting at 11 am in the lobby tomorrow morning.**

**SH**

'Spend the night'? Sherlock want's to spend the night, with his old Uni friend. Could be just two mates sharing happy memories of their days at Cambridge, yeah. Sure. Oh, God, this is Sherlock Holmes. Oh, God, John felt his life teetering on the slippery-slope of doom.

John observed Ahsan; he tried to use Sherlock's methods. Ahsan was perspiring in the air-conditioned lobby; he had been pacing. Clearly Ahsan was upset, and he expected John to be upset, even more upset than one would expect from the bloody, damn note. Ahsan was holding something back from John, something unpleasant.

"You saw Mr. Trevor; please describe him to me, Ahsan," requested John calmly edging towards that slope.

"Oh, well, John Watson, um he was abnormally tall and had dark hair. I do not myself think he was handsome, not at all, no. He called out to Sherlock Holmes, stupidly, if I was being asked. Then they said a European hello. He and Sherlock Holmes were very friendly, stupidly, if I was being asked. Sherlock Holmes gave me this very stupid, bloody, damn note, and I followed them to the hotel restaurant, Sendaro, and then I came back here. Will you be very much angry now?" asked Ahsan in a rush.

John stood at the top of his metaphorical slippery slope, his feet slipping in the rubble of his life. The fall was inevitable, and it was going to hurt.

"You mean a tall, very handsome man grabbed Sherlock and kissed him in public. Sherlock liked this and agreed to go to dinner with the man. They also kissed, held hands or engaged in a public display of affection. Well, and why should I be angry?" said John with a broad smile that did not reach his stone-like eyes."So, why don't you go to dinner, Ahsan? Go out, and have fun," suggested the Captain.

"I do not think that I am hungry, John Watson. And where do you think you are going?" asked Ahsan, who chased after the short blond soldier.

"I need to see Mr. Holmes about a slippery slope that leads to the chasm of death and doom?" said John cryptically.

Ahsan was confused and more concerned than ever, but insisted on helping the army captain. The two men plotted in the hallway, before approaching the restaurant.

At the entrance to Sendaro, Ahsan accosted the maitre de. He asked for his reservation. When he was informed that he had no reservation, Ahsan loudly insisted that the maître de had lost Ahsan's reservation on purpose, because he and his date were gay. In the confusion, John, wearing a deep blue sports coat over his black dress shirt and tight black jeans, marched past. He used his Captain's voice to dress down the one waiter who tried to stop him.

The dining room was romantic with spotless, white table clothes and candlelight. Through the floor to ceiling windows, one could view the lush backlit gardens outside. Sherlock Holmes sat next to a tall, painfully thin man with short black hair and a fine mustache. He wore a tailored suit much like Sherlock's. His handsome appearance screamed old money.

The dark-haired devil held Sherlock's hand. Yep, the long, slow fall had started.

The wary soldier approached the enemy lines, his clenched fists the only sign of his anger and jealousy.

"Evening Sherlock," said John, smiling pleasantly although his hard, blue eyes glittered dangerously.

Sherlock frowned at John, seeming displeased.

Sherlock had been surprised to see Victor. The detective was curious to see what had become of his old lover, and curious to see what he himself might feel about Victor now. Sherlock was unaccustomed to restraining his curiosity.

So far the evening had been a let down. Victor had been admiring, attentive and yet, somehow, very dull. And worse yet, Sherlock had a strange, uncomfortable feeling, as if it was wrong to be eating dinner with Victor Trevor. John's arrival accentuated these problems; besides, John had ignored Sherlock's note, which was annoying. Sherlock was unaccustomed to tolerating annoyances.

"Victor, this is my colleague, John Watson. John, this is a very good friend of mine from Cambridge, Victor Trevor," said Sherlock. "John, I believe that I can be spared for one evening."

Neither John nor Victor missed Sherlock's choice of words. John was a _colleague_ while Victor was a _very good friend_. Victor preened in front of his obvious rival.

John briefly considered pounding Sherlock's very good friend into the floor.

"Sherlock, could I speak to you alone for just a minute?" asked John with his very best fake smile.

Sherlock's discomfort grew. He and Victor had parted badly, so he had been flattered and touched by Victor's effusive welcome. He felt he needed to finish his examination of Victor and his past relationship with Sherlock. Sherlock did not want to explain any of this to John. Sherlock was not accustomed to explaining his motives.

The detective wanted John to go away, just for the night, until Sherlock had fully satisfied his curiosity about Victor.

"Oh, you're the little personal assistant, that blogger fellow. Say, Sherlock, I used to read those blogs because I was so excited to hear about you. But you really ought to hire a real publicist. Watson's online ramblings really are so banal, so puerile. No offence, there, Watson. I'm sure you try to do your best," said Victor with a sneer. "Say, Sherlock, do you really think it's a good idea to let the help call you by your first name?"

"Sherlock, I would only like a couple of minutes of your time. I'd like to understand..."

"Oh,oh! Watch how this is done, Sherlock," said Victor Trevor in a patronizing voice. He covered Sherlock's hand with his own, "Now, Watson, my good man, you must leave your boss alone now. Otherwise, you might just be fired," he said sternly.

"Sherlock, you do remember discussing exclusivity, yeah? You do realize that you're making a choice here?" asked John, no longer faking a smile.

Sherlock nodded, regretting the three glasses of champagne that clouded his thinking.

"Fine. And you are choosing to stay with your good friend from Uni instead of me?" asked John. His dark blue eyes glittered dangerously and glared up from under his lowered brow.

"Oh, I say! I would never tolerate this in my help. How very pedantic; how pushy!" exclaimed Victor, polishing off another glass of champagne. "My God, Watson, it's an easy enough choice to make. Dinner with a handsome young man of his own class or work with a broken-down, old, workhorse, who probably doesn't even own a suit. Now, run along, Mr. Watson."

"Pardon me, Vicky," said John smiling politely. "But please, shut the fuck up. As for you, Mr. Holmes, you don't have to fire me. I quit," John spun on his heel, a perfectly executed about-face, and marched out head erect. He grabbed Ahsan by his elbow on the way out.

"Sherlock prefers that precious prat," John hissed at his young friend. "Victor Trevor? What a twat! Even with my pitifully, average little brain I can read his drug addiction in his bad nose-job and alcoholism in his rosacea. But hell, I guess that's all fine with Sherlock. And on top of everything else, our cover is blown. I think I have to leave here,soon. I should leave tonight," the army doctor whispered urgently to Ahsan.

"Oh my God, I'm coming with you, John. You know this. But we will have to wait for Sherlock Holmes. We have to…" said Ahsan.

"Ahsan, what I have to do is think. I have to get some air. Why don't you order room service or go to the bar; please get yourself something to eat. I'll text you in a bit, OK?" asked John. He needed to escape the confining, airless lobby now.

John charged out of the hotel to walk the dark streets of Dallas. He was sliding down that slippery slope, and it hurt. It bloody well hurt.

Inwardly, John seethed as he stormed down the street. Stupid Sherlock! Sociopathic dick! I've had it with him and his on again/off again friendship and so called relationship.

Right. I'm the idiot. How naïve! I really thought he cared. I thought he cared at least a little bit. I am so stupid. How could I have fallen for all that 'you belong to me crap'? How did I never notice how one-sided it all was? I belong to him. Right. I'm there when it's convenient, for him. But he sure as hell doesn't belong to me.

Well, fuck me to bloody hell.

John ended up in a so-called park that was more dirt and concrete than anything else. Slouched in some graffiti-filled bleachers, he took out his gun and played with it, checking the safety, checking the clip.

His thoughts circled like vultures becoming darker and deadlier, as he contemplated his humiliating abandonment by Sherlock-yet again.

Idiot. Why would a mature adult, like John, continue to trust a crazy man like Sherlock. Answer, because I'm obviously crazy too. I should just quit trying. I should just give up. Let the new Sig Sauer finish it once and for all. Just one bullet, just one little bullet and no more heart ache. BAM, end of story, thought the doctor.

"Damn!" yelled John into the night. "Dammit to hell!" A group of teens moved uneasily away from the crazy little blond with a gun. Lucky for me, the State of Texas has easy gun laws, thought John.

Damn Sherlock and his good looks. Damn him with his fake friendship and on and off charm. Damn him and his brilliance, that attracted a pathetic, short, old, used-up follower like John Watson. John seriously studied the barrel of the gun. He stared at his own finger on the trigger. What would the barrel of the gun feel like in his mouth? How would it taste?

Why _should_ I fight it? Why shouldn't I just give in like everyone else? He dropped his head into his hands, he was so bloody tired of asking that question. He'd been asking it since he was just a kid.

* * *

_"You smoke that cigarette in front of me? You did not go to school this morning, and you defy me, your elder, in my own garden?" Over 250 pounds of angry adult towered over the tow-headed nine-year old boy. The boy was small for his age, but he defiantly blew smoke in the face of the large man with dark skin and greying hair. Although, angry, the man tolerated the insult._

_"Why should I go to school? I'm no good at it. Why shouldn't I smoke? I'm going to die anyway, everyone dies. Why bother trying to be good little boy? My mother left me anyway. She's dead and gone. Who cares; why shouldn't I just give up like everyone else?" The furious boy pursed his lips and clenched his fists in front of the older man._

_"You should keep trying to be good because it's the right thing to do," began Mr. al-Masri patiently._

_"I don't care if it's right or wrong! Who's gonna know? Who's gonna care? Huh?" The blue eye's glaring at Mr. al-Masri were the eyes of a grown-up. They were hard and unyielding, the eyes of a soldier._

_"I will know, my son. And, more importantly, you will know. You will have to live with yourself and what ever you have done with your life. Yes, you will die someday. You can die a good man who has always done the right thing, even if it was hard, even if it hurts. Then you will die proud. Or you can die a bad man who is ashamed of his life. Will you look in the mirror someday and think, I am weak and ashamed? Will you face me one day and say, "It was too hard for me, and I quit like every one else?" said the man._

_The man put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "I am proud that you are like a son to me. __I know you are good boy, and you will be a good man who always tries and doesn't give in to the pain and hurt._

_The boy's eye's softened fractionally, and he ground out the cigarette that he had stolen from his older sister, Harriet._

_The soldier inside the boy respected Mr. al-Masri. Maybe, he even loved him, like a father. _

_Even at nine, the boy knew how to hide his feelings like a good soldier. He dropped his mask enough to force a fake smile onto his face in order __to please the good, kind man. The little blond's forehead wrinkled with the effort of smiling and yet keeping his eyes carefully empty as he had been trained. The world, even Mr. al-Masri, couldn't be trusted with all of John Hamish's feelings._

_After all, if you share too much of your heart, people will just break it-like his mom had when she died.__  
_

_"Come John Hamish, I will take you to school now. I will explain everything to the office. You will begin being a good man right now." the older man smiled. _

_The small soldier marched after the man. He was determined to keep on trying even though it hurt, because that's what Mr. al-Mari wanted, because that's what soldiers and good men do._

* * *

"Damn," muttered the tow-headed man, pursing his lips and clenching his fists. "Damn, damn, damn

Well, I guess I'm not quitting, thought John. He carefully holstered his gun. I don't have to give up and die just because I lost Sherlock to some posh tosser.

I'll do the stupid mission on my own because it's the right thing to do. Afterwards, maybe I'll just stay in the military. Brilliant. Wonderful. At least, when the end comes, I'll be able to face Mr. al-Masri...and myself.

John slowly climbed out of the bleachers and began limping back to the hotel. Dear God, would this feeling of falling ever stop. It hurt so damn much.

John had ruined the evening, just by showing up. Compared to John, Victor no longer looked so handsome or enticing. The threadbare patches on his tailored suit and his worn shoes indicated a serious and chronic lack of funds. And really, the tall man was not nearly as handsome as Sherlock remembered. Victor's black hair was dyed. His nose had required plastic surgery, and the surgical results were not impressive. No doubt Victor had suffered septal necrosis from chronic drug abuse. The bloom of red on his cheeks and nose were the result of alcoholism, not the blush of feelings. Even the promise of Victor's cocaine. now seemed depressing and empty.

Victor continued to natter on about his impressive social status and all the very famous people he knew personally. Both men picked at their gourmet fare, although Victor was steadily downing the champagne.

Upon sereious reflection,what did cocaine have to offer anyway? If Sherlock used now, would John end their new relationship? Would it effect whether Sherlock was even included on John's 'mission'?

The answers were obvious, even after three glasses of very expensive champagne. Cocaine offered a temporary, empty, lonely euphoria not companionship, understanding and love. John would be horrified if Sherlock used the drug and would very likely end their relationship. If Sherlock got high tonight, the army captain would most certainly end Sherlock's involvement in John's dangerous quest. And without Sherlock's help, John would probably fail or worse yet, die. The consulting detective's discomfort became acute anxiety.

What exactly had John meant, when he said that he quit? That made no sense, because Sherlock wasn't really his employer. However, it sounded more than a bit not good. Sherlock absently signed the bill for the very expensive dinner; even though Victor was the supposed host. Sherlock's curiosity was not worth this turmoil. Victor Trevor certainly could not compare to John Watson.

He slowly followed Victor into the elevator, while he decided how best to proceed. His grey-blue eyes narrowed as he reconsidered his plans for the evening. Victor whispered about the special, high quality Stardust** waiting in his room and nuzzled the detective's neck. It was annoying. Sherlock's eyes widened as the elevator doors drew to a close. John Watson was in the lobby, watching him with wide eyes and undisguised loathing. Sherlock swallowed with difficulty.

Victor led Sherlock into his room. He pulled Sherlock into a kiss; the detective recoiled when Victor shoved his tongue deep into his mouth. Victor laughed, "You never used to mind my tongue deep in your mouth Sherlock. Or my dick, you used to love that," The formerly elegant rake giggled drunkenly, clearly thinking that he was somehow alluring. Sherlock thought back to his time with Victor. He had certainly pleasured the man many times, but had Sherlock 'loved it'?

Sherlock remembered feeling desperate, needing the drugs. He did what he had to do to get the next fix; he did not love it. Nor did he love Victor Trevor. Yes, he had been hurt and humiliated when Victor dumped him, but certainly not heartbroken.

Victor went to his dresser and pulled out several packets of white powder. "What do you think, Sherly? How much do you want to buy, tonight? I can give you very generous terms, for old time's sake. In fact, I'll let you share some with me right now, if you can deep throat me like you used to. God, you were the best," Victor began to undo his trousers. His thin, pinched face was face bright red with lust.

Sherlock bolted from the room and headed for the lift. He needed to return to the lobby to find John Watson.

John had gone straight back to his luxurious suite. He packed his bags and argued on the phone at the same time.

"Look Greg, I realize it's the middle of the night. I had no one else to call, as I already explained. Please just give me whatever you have on Victor Trevor. I'm guessing from your tone of voice that you've heard of him, and he has outstanding warrants for drug possession at the very least. He's not as rich as he pretends; he's hanging out in the United States for some reason. I bet he's dealing here," said John, flinging his new blue jumper into the bin in anger.

"Yes, alright, John. Trevor does have warrants for his arrest for possession, and for low-level dealing,." Said Lestrade. "There is also a warrant out for him for allegedly having improper relations with a minor. Plus, you might as well know that he used to be one of Sherlock's dealers, but I'm guessing you already knew that?"

Of course, John hadn't known. It made him angrier with Trevor, Sherlock and even himself. John roughly scrubbed at his face.

"He also used Sherlock pretty shabbily. Although, to be honest, Sherlock was no angel then either." said Greg Lestrade uncomfortably. He was unsure how much of Sherlock's past to share with John. The DI glanced at the clock, which read 3:30 am in London.

"OK, so would the authorities extradite him for these warrants? Could the US authorities deport him?" asked John.

"Hell, I don't know," the DI scratched his head. "Yeah, I think, maybe, yes to both questions. Now I need some answers, John. Where are you? Is Sherlock with you? Do you know that MI6, Interpol and some Israelis have called me about you? Not Sherlock, they want you. Interpol told me straight up that you are in danger from both terrorists and organized crime," said Lestrade firmly.

"Um, I'm in the State of Texas, and Sherlock was with me, but he left again but …"said John, processing the information. He was uncertain how much he could safely tell his friend the detective inspector.

"Left? Sherlock left? OK, whatever you do, don't start freaking out. And don't even pretend that you don't freak out every time that man so much as disappears for a couple for hours. Now I'm telling you, if Sherlock left, he's coming back. I'm sure of this. So no all-nighters, no coffee-benders. John are you listening to me?" asked Lestrade.

"Well, I don't think he wants to come back and maybe it would better if he didn't," said John sullenly.

"Right, what happened? Christ, wait, are you safe? Is he safe? please, tell me he didn't leave with he did, I'll wring Sherlock's neck myself. And I still want to know why these people are after you?" asked Lestrade. He was now wide awake and rapidly stressing out.

"Um, yeah. Well he is with Vicky, Victor. Well, Victor is younger. He's handsome, posh and elegant so I can understand," muttered John.

"No. He's scum. He's bad news. God help me, Sherlock's a fool!" exclaimed Lestrade, further messing up his silvery, sleep-tousled hair. "John, I know this will be hard, but can't you go check on Sherlock. Maybe you could give him a warning?"

"Hard? I can do hard. That's my job," said John in a hard, flat voice. He rubbed his traitorous, burning eyes. Damn, damn. Allergies again, thought John.

"OK, good. Look, John. About those people looking for you…John, turn yourself in to the nearest embassy or, barring that, the nearest police station. I'll come get you and Sherlock myself, and…"

John hung up. He finished his Venti cappuccino with two extra shots of espresso. One coffee, does not a bender make.

It was time for cowboy diplomacy; he was only sorry that he hadn't started with a pre-emptive strike. John sent Ahsan back to the lobby as a lookout, to confirm the success of the John's mission.

John shot up the steps to Victor Trevor's room, expecting the worst. And it was fine; he was a soldier and a doctor. John specialized in doing the hard jobs because he was the soldier. Hard as rock; tough as nails.

And too bad if Sherlock was infatuated with the bloody drug dealer. If Victor was dealing drugs to the susceptible detective, then John was going to stop it, even if Sherlock hated him for it. It wasn't as if Sherlock and John had any future anyway. Sherlock had been quite explicit; John was a colleague. And anyway, John was never speaking to the consulting detective ever again.

John knocked once on the devil Trevor's room. No answer. Oh, God this was going to be embarrassing. Embarrasing doesn't matter. Only Sherlock's safety mattered.

John tensed; then kicked the door in. Trevor stood frozen in the midst of removing his tie. "Hullo, Vicky. I just need to speak to Sherlock for a moment," said John grimly.

"Oh, well. Sherly's gone, but he played my big trombone like a virtuoso. Amazing what that man will do for a little stardust," slurred the intoxicated man. Who _still had a hard on_, noted John. So he's lying about the blowjob. Victor continued to burble, "Sherly's mouth was just made for…"

John slapped the scum to the floor. "No one talks about Sherlock Holmes like that in front of me, Vicky. And don't ever call him Sherly, either."

John pushed the much larger man back down to the floor, with his foot.

"Now Vicky, this is just a little courtesy call. I don't know who's going to get here first, ICE or DEA*, but for Sherlock's sake, I thought I'd warn you. I'd guess you have at least fifteen or twenty minutes, before they get here," said John. "I'm guessing that they might want to help you book you a one-way ticket back to England? Or maybe to the local gaol? I suppose the State of Texas and Washington DC frown on drug dealers and fugitives from the law?"

John slowly began to back out of the room, expecting the tosser to try to fight back. Trevor stood up unsteadily; he was now grey faced. "I'll tell them Sherly bought drugs," snarled Victor. John stepped forward, arm raised, "Sherlock. I mean Sherlock. But if they catch me, I swear he's going down with me." Uh, oh. What if Vicky called Captain Watson's bluff?

The whey-faced twat shoved his expensive but worn clothing into a beat-up suitcase. He dropped little bags full of white powder on top of his clothes and ran into the lavatory. The intoxicated idiot had fallen for John's bluff. As if the army doctor would chance getting Sherlock into trouble, by informing on Vicky.

John stared at the little white bags. Wait! Pre-emptive Strike!

John seized his opportunity. He strode forward and grabbed as many little bags as he could. He turned and trotted back to the stairwell.

On the stairs, John stopped to call Ahsan. To hell with Sherlock's** No Unnecessary Mobile Phone Usage** rule. This was very necessary.

"Ahsan, Vicky should be on his way down, would you mind waiting to confirm that he actually leaves the premises?" asked John.

"Oh my God, why do you ask such a stupid question, John Watson? I am stationed by you to the lobby to watch for him since you started your cowboy diplomacy mission. Of course I will stay on duty here until the mission is over. What do you think I am, some kind of traitorous back stabbing guy?" demanded the young man.

"No. Oh, God, no, of course not. You are top-notch, Ahsan," the captain said reassuringly. "Also, Ahsan, I still plan to leave shortly after Miss Vicky leaves."

"Oh my God, what about Sherlock Holmes?" asked Ahsan

"Well, he wasn't with Miss Vicky just now; I'll try his room in a minute. I'll talk to you again in a few minutes," said John, exiting the stair well.

John limped down the hall, the psychosomatic leg pain was back with a vengeance, the cowboy diplomacy notwithstanding. John slowed when he saw that the door to his room was already open.

Oh great, and John was loaded with bags of coke. He shoved all the bags down low in his bulging pockets. The soldier pulled out his handgun and stalked to the doorway. He took a deep breath; then twisted around the door frame and burst into the room, his outstretched hands holding his gun at the ready.

Sherlock Holmes stood wild-eyed in John's hotel room. His agitated fingers ruffled his short auburn hair.

The consulting detective had just broken into John's room, in search of his blogger. He had found John's bags fully packed except for a couple of toiletries and the blue jumper which was in the trash bin. He now stared down the barrel of John's gun.

"John!" said the agitated detective, "What, where are you going?"

"Oh, Hullo, Sherlock," said John nonchalantly. He had already forgotten the new **Never Speak to Sherlock Holmes Again** rule. "I just saw your boyfriend, Vicky. He's decided to leave the hotel, right now, in fact. Change of plans, I guess."

John tucked his gun back into his holster. Sherlock came up to put his hand on his blogger's shoulder.

"Don't touch me," said John flatly. John stepped around the tall man who turned even paler than usual.

The doctor walked into the bathroom. He began to rip open the little bags of white powder and poured the contents into the toilet. He flushed the first offerings away.

Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb. "You've confronted Victor," he said quietly.

"Not really a confrontation, Sherlock. I suggested that he might want to leave, and he decided to leave. You needn't worry, I didn't leave a mark on his beautiful face; well, except the red handprint. I didn't even threaten him, not really. You know, you can probably just catch him, if you hurry," said John, pretending unconcern. John concentrated, as he methodically flushed hundreds of dollars in drugs down the loo.

Sherlock was at a loss. He could not understand how he had screwed up so badly. How had the great detective, with an eidetic memory, sentimentalized his memories of Victor Trevor? How had he forgotten how Victor had exploited him for sex, and how Sherlock had in fact exploited Victor's friendship for his next drug fix?

And how exactly, had he messed up so badly with John. John was behaving oddly, distantly. John's face was a mask as he finished eliminating a small fortune in drugs. John probably didn't even know the street value of the drugs; several thousand British pounds, estimated the detective. Not that that would matter to the soldier.

He tried to deduce his blogger. John seemed pleasant and calm, but his strange, expressionless tone of voice warned Sherlock that the doctor was anything but calm. His blogger was also limping tonight, another clear sign of distress. And John's eyes were oddly vacant.

"You expected me to be with Victor?" asked the detective defensively.

"Yep," said John.

"I wasn't. I left him when I realized that he was just after money and sex. I left on my own, to find you, John," said the detective with a small tentative smile.

John was torn. He wanted to come up with an answer so scathing that it would slash that smile off of Sherlock's face. But he also wanted to reassure the young, inexperienced man that everything would be alright, to make the smile last.

John desperately wanted to run away and never look back. But he felt compelled to stay and take care of Sherlock Holmes.

John wanted to get drunk, get hurt, hurt someone else and hurt himself some more. He needed to be strong. He needed to be a soldier. He had to make sure the stupid git was safe. Oh bloody hell, didn't John have a mission of some sort…John tried to block his cascading thoughts.

John was tired. He was in pain. He could feel himself being torn in half. He could feel his heart breaking, tearing, bleeding. It hurt, and it didn't matter; John did the hard jobs.

"John, I asked you, where are you going?" said Sherlock the smile gone.

"Sherlock," said John, trying to explain. "You said I was just your colleague. I saw you kissing him. You came to me only _after_ he disappointed you," John sighed. Sherlock looked blank and confused. He just didn't get it. "Oh God, Sherlock, I was your second choice. It's no good, Sherlock. I can't be second choice in love, I just can't. You want to know where I'm going? There's been a change of plans; I'm leaving, right now, to go to Juarez."

Sherlock's eyes were huge. His only friend, his only refuge, his John, was going to leave too. Just like everyone else. Sherlock always managed to drive everyone away. He couldn't help reaching out for John again. Tears stinging his eyes.

Oh, God, thought John, horrified at his friend's vulnerability and his own eagerness to fall back into the trap of loving Sherlock Holmes.

"I said, don't touch me, and I meant don't touch me," John nearly snarled. John instantly felt even worse, as a tear trailed down his former lover's cheek. "I'll tell you what Sherlock bloody Holmes. I'm leaving now, instantly. If you want to come as a colleague or as a friend, then go pack up. But do not imagine for one second... that I plan to put what's left of my heart... into your uncaring hands ever again," said John his voice pitching higher and cracking. John's slide down the slippery slope finally ended. He was in free-fall, and it didn't hurt so much because all of John's feelings were dying now. Just get the job done. Nothing else mattered anymore.

The detective's breath caught in his throat. John really didn't want him anymore.

"But nothing happened, John. Just a few kisses... I was just curious…" said Sherlock.

"Oh God, Sherlock. A few kisses? And holding hands and going to his room and most importantly, choosing him over me is enough. It's more than enough," said John trying to keep himself together.

A text alert sounded on John's phone.

**Miss Vicky has left the hotel with all his luggage too. AG**

"Make up your mind, Sherlock. I'm going to Juarez. You can still be a part of the team. I still want to be friends, if you're willing," said John. John pursed his lips but his eyes did not meet Sherlock's. John stared at the opposite wall, his eyes cold and empty in his pale, drawn face.

"John, nothing happened," tried Sherlock in a small voice.

John, bit the inside of his lip until it bled, and then he turned away to pack his toiletries.

"John, I would like to come with you. Obviously, I still want to be your friend," said the consulting detective, defeated.

John held out his hand, Sherlock tilted his head, uncertain if this would violate John's new **Don't Touch Me** rule. John grabbed Sherlock's right hand and shook it. "Fine, we're still friends, Sherlock. Get your bags and meet me in the lobby.

Sherlock looked at the blue jumper in the bin; he looked at the lifeless blue eyes of his blogger. I've ruined it all, thought the detective despairing. I don't know how to fix it.

Sherlock dragged himself slowly back to his room. He heard his ex-boyfriend call the lift. The blank look on John's face haunted the detective. He packed methodically; he couldn't remember ever feeling so hopeless. He had not felt this helpless even on the day when he faked his death at St. Bart's.

His new-found relationship was lying crumpled and torn in the trash bin.

John was over-reacting. John was being unreasonable. Sherlock had only been curious.

But then, even Sherlock wondered if he should begin to restrain his curiosity, just in certain areas of course. But it was already too late! John had clearly stated that he and Sherlock were now just friends.

Sherlock's mind was finally working again. It began to make all the connections again. John did not tolerate infidelity. He had never forgiven that Mary Monster-stan for her indiscretion. He would never forgive Sherlock either. The best Sherlock could hope for was to salvage their strained friendship. Even that was at risk, judging from John's hard, uncaring eyes.

Despondent, Sherlock slowly slunk back into John's empty room to retrieve the blue jumper from the bin. It was pathetic sentiment, but Sherlock wanted to keep that jumper as a reminder that one person had loved him for himself, however briefly. However, the blue jumper was not in the trash bin.

Sherlock had only taken minutes to pack his bag. His door was open; surely he would have heard if anyone had come into John's room.

Sherlock chewed his lip. His blogger must have retrieved the jumper himself. Sentiment, people keep such things for sentiment, _but only if they still care_. Sherlock hurried down the stairs with his luggage, as a tiny flame of hope sputtered back to life in Sherlock's heart.

**A/N **My apologies for bringing in Victor . I really dislike him (for no apparent reason) and I don't know why I allowed him to force himself in here. John blames Sherlock and Sherlock blames Victor and no one cares what Victor thinks. :P

*ICE Immigration and Customs Enforcement, part of US Department of Homeland Security

*DEA Drug Enforcement Administration, part of the US Department of Justice

**Stardust-euphamism for cocaine (Being a drug culture innocent, I had to look it up. Sorry if it's not really used or possibly old-fashioned. On the other hand I am not ashamed to be a drug culture innocent; drugs cloud the mind and in the end interfere with observations and deductions. A bit not good, Sherlock)

Thank you to everyone reading this fanfic. Reviews much appreciated!

**Disclaimer**- I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Ahsan pulled the rental car over to the side of the road, braking slowly while the passenger-side rear tire ker-thunked rhythmically. Only an hour outside of Fort Worth, Texas and they had a flat tire.

Ahsan worried at his lip. This had been a very bad day. Sherlock Holmes behaved like a crazy man and chose his old boyfriend over Ahsan's hero, Captain John Watson. And then John Watson had not gotten very angry but instead had gone all quiet and scary.

The cause of the schism, Victor Trevor, had left Dallas fearing his own arrest. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Ahsan Ghulam were headed to Juarez, Mexico. Still, things were not going well.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson both said little and ate nothing. Sherlock Holmes constantly watched John Watson from the corner of his eyes. John Watson conspicuously ignored Sherlock Holmes and continually played with his handgun taking it out to check on it whenever he thought no one was looking.

Ahsan nervously waited to see which man would blow up first.

"I shall change the tire then?" said the young Pakistani-American uncertainly.

"I'll help you. I changed lots of tires in Afghanistan," said John, using his fake smile and his false-cheerful voice again.

"I thought you didn't know how to drive," said Sherlock. He glanced sideways again at his blogger. John smiled vaguely but looked no one in the eye. In fact, John's eyes were dull and lifeless even with the smile. His hand reached to touch his gun, again.

"Oh, well I don't drive very well. There was this incident with a goat and then once with a rug merchant" admitted John with another painfully false smile. "But I can certainly change tires." John stepped out of the car, trying to hide his limp.

Inwardly, John cringed, because even he sensed that his fake smiles were not fooling anyone. Still, he had survived his free fall into hell. John was over half a day into this new post-apocalyptic-no-more-loving-Sherlock world, and John was still alive and functioning. The mission was still on. That was something, right?

John shoved another cigar into his mouth and went to help Ahsan empty the boot. He broke out into a cold sweat as soon as he leaned into the boot to remove luggage.

Oh for God's sake, was he going to be phobic about car boots too, John wondered? He hoped his friends attributed his reaction to the heat. After all, it was nearly 30º Celsius under the bright Texas sun.

Naturally, Sherlock instantly observed his blogger's reaction and correctly deduced that the doctor was unnerved by his recent near-death experience in the car boot, but of course the soldier would never admit it. The detective unfolded himself from the car and tried to move John away from the back of the car.

"Don't touch me," said John reflexively, as he had each time Sherlock touched him that day.

Sherlock ground his teeth together. He refrained from a sharp retort, as he had each time John uttered those hateful words. "I will help Ahsan empty the boot. You can assist him with the tire change," suggested Sherlock neutrally

"Fine," muttered John, secretly relieved. He limped to the side of the road. He surveyed the area for threats. Maybe it was too soon to be looking for drug cartels or Taliban. But the CIA or Russian mafia could turn up, he thought hopefully. At least that would give him something to think about other than Sherlock Holmes and Victor 'the devil incarnate' Trevor.

Unfortunately, there did not seem to be any mobsters or spies lurking about.

Still, threats could suddenly appear, as if by magic, and without warning, they could destroy one's world. Threats like asteroids, pandemics, terrorists and Victor Trevors. When no threats other than some dusty cows presented themselves, he threw himself down on the grass in disgust.

John watched the others remove luggage, a spare tire, a jack and tools from the forbidding car boot. John played with his gun again, checking the safety and magazine. He wondered obsessively how the barrel of the gun would taste. He looked up and saw the detective watching him. He could probably read his mind. John checked the safety again and quickly returned the gun to his shoulder holster.

John finally lit a couple of flares to warn the heavy traffic about their disabled vehicle. Ahsan quickly jacked the car up but couldn't loosen the lug nuts. John limped over and freed them.

"I bet lots of posh blokes wouldn't be strong enough to handle these," said John, initiating conversation for the first time that day. "I bet lots of them wouldn't even know what to do. They probably only use their spare tires to hide their cocaine and shite. Probably."

Sherlock saw an opening, "You are no doubt correct, John. It is indeed fortunate for us that you are unusually strong, obviously much stronger than most men."

Ahsan looked up and shook his head in disbelief.

John bit savagely down on his cigar, frowning at the detective. He was furious at himself for the flush of foolish pride he felt when Sherlock complimented him.

I'm an idiot. When will I learn? Sherlock's interest will only be temporary. Something new and interesting will catch his eye and BAM; off he'll go again. Like a cat tempted by anything that moves.

After an hour and a half, they were back in the car and heading west. Ahsan insisted on driving until the traffic died out. He munched a double-stacked burger. Sherlock nibbled on a much smaller burger. He had thought that John might eat, if he saw Sherlock eating.

Instead, John just drank another coffee and scribbled in his notebook.

An hour later, John loudly announced, "OK, here's the first map." John gave Sherlock that fake empty smile. His dark blue eyes remained cold and lifeless, much as they had looked when Sherlock first met John at St. Barts. "You should memorize this map, Sherlock, and store it in your mind palace. I bet you have a map room in there, don't you?" John accidentally looked directly at Sherlock pale blue eyes. John quickly ducked his head and blushed.

"Why are you making a map, John?" asked the detective. He tilted his head and stared at his blogger suspiciously.

"It shows how to get to an old ruined farmhouse along the Grand Trunk Road north of Jalandhar. See, you first have to find a ruined kos minar and it has to be the right one. Look at the map. Then you turn west-northwest from the ruin and cut across some fields. Then you find this collapsed farm-house," John looked up at Sherlock again. The detective had turned around in his seat to stare back at John. "What?" asked the soldier.

"Why, the map John?" asked the detective, his voice rumbling dangerously.

"It's the location of the first cache, what else?" answered John, innocently. He felt sweat trickle down his back under the laser-like eyes of his former lover.

"Yes, I deduced that from the beginning. I do not see the reason for making me memorize the location of this or any of the other caches," snarled Sherlock, his eyes narrowed.

"Well, obviously, in case something happens to me," said the army doctor defensively. His brow furrowed, and he chewed his lip nervously. He felt the sweat break out over his forehead now .John wondered vaguely, why the hell doesn't Sherlock ever sweat?

"Nothing is going to happen to you, John," said the detective quietly, his face pinched and pale.

"Things happen, Sherlock Holmes. Accidents, food poisoning, falling meteorites, ex-boyf…um, ex-cons, yeah, ex cons on a killing spree. Um, like, like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre'" stuttered John. A tiny spark flared in his blue eyes while he reached unconsciously for his gun. "_Things. Happen_," snapped John finally.

Sherlock breathed through parted lips for several seconds as he deduced the dejected and now irritated doctor. "Nothing will happen to you, John. I do not intend to allow anything to happen to you, ever," said the consulting detective enunciating slowly and clearly.

He would not argue with John now. Sherlock had obviously made an enormous mistake last night. He had apologized to John twice. He would now force himself to be patient, even though he was not accustomed to waiting patiently.

"We will continue to go over the map, Sherlock Holmes. At the ruins of the farm-house there's a bunker. Sebastian buried an old tank car… "explained the doctor.

Sherlock pulled his lighter out of his pocket and set the map on fire.

"Oh my God, Oh my God, you are a crazy man, Sherlock Holmes," yelled Ahsan, The rental car swerved back and forth across the lanes. Other cars and trucks honked furiously.

"What did you do that for?" yelled John.

"You think I don't know what you're thinking, John Watson? Well, of course you're mistaken. I can clearly deduce you," sneered the pale detective, patience forgotten. "You put a brave face on it, as always, but I disappointed you. I know that I hurt you and made you angry. I see you with that gun, and I know what you're thinking. I know why you made that map. In case something "happens"," Sherlock used air quotes. "Translation, in case you deliberately cause yourself harm. Well, I won't survive your death long enough for any maps to matter, John Watson. So stop wasting your time and mine." Sherlock sifted the ashes out of the window.

John's forehead creased in anger and embarrassment as he glared up at the enraged detective. "I'm not having this conversation," said John with finality. He and Sherlock both stared out of their windows, breathing heavily.

"I'm stopping here. Oh my God, you two need to work this out. You are both the idiots now. And you need to stop acting crazy Sherlock Holmes, no more fires in the car when I'm driving." Driving over thirty miles per hour through the parking lot, Ahsan brought the car to an abrupt stop at The Road Kill Saloon, a one-pump gas station/diner/bar/pool hall/gift shop/convenience store /guns, ammo and fireworks emporium.

Ahsan flung open his door and stormed into the diner, looking for dinner. John raised his chin and eyebrows hoping that it adequately expressed his extreme displeasure and defiance, and then, he too stormed into the diner in search of coffee. Sherlock remained seated in his thinking pose before he continued his Internet searches on his smart phone.

Although Ahsan was irritated with John Watson's sulks, he was much angrier with Sherlock Holmes's mistreatment of the British war hero, not to mention the burning map incident. Therefore, John was allowed to join Ahsan, who ate his meat loaf special with a side of peach cobbler and ice cream. John enjoyed three cups of coffee.

He and Ahsan took turns glaring at each other but, more often, they glared through the window at the tall, thin man seated in the silver rental car playing with his smart phone.

Purple clouds, highlighted with pink and red, gathered as the hot, crimson sun sank into the barren plains. John left The Road Kill with a large new knife in a hand tooled leather sheath, which was strapped over his shin. He had also attached a new duty holster to his belt complete with a new Browning L9A1. He carried a large bag of ammunition and a new wide-brimmed fedora.

Sherlock looked at his heavily armed blogger, who glared back defiantly. "I thought you mentioned a cowboy hat earlier?" ventured the detective cautiously.

"Cowboy hats don't suit me. This does. I'll need a hat in the desert. So will you," returned John. His face once again a carefully neutral mask.

"I don't do hats," said the detective airily.

"Oh my God, John Watson. Cool Indiana Jones hat," said Ahsan giving John a high-five. Ahsan was refreshed after a meal and some flirtation with the pretty red-haired waitress. The younger man also wore a new cowboy hat and had a knife like John's strapped to his shin. "Thank you for the hat and bowie-knife, John Watson. They are definite babe-magnets. The waitress said I was cute," he whispered. "But Sherlock Holmes needs a hat too, yes?"

"He doesn't do hats," said the army doctor waving his hand about in imitation of the consulting detective. "Sherlock Holmes will simply glare at the sun, and it will be so intimidated that it will not dare to give him a sunburn.

"Sherlock, get out of the car and walk around. You'll get blood clots sitting like that all day. Come inside and get some coffee or tea. I know I need a coffee."

They resumed their journey in the dark. John pulled a CD out of his backpack that was jammed full of necessities. He smiled grimly as Adele began singing Rolling in the Deep. There was nothing better for a broken heart than a good, old-fashioned, depressing, break-up album.

Sherlock quickly analyzed the lyrics; they were hardly cryptic. He rolled his eyes and bit his lower lip. It did not take long to push him to the breaking point. When Ahsan and John began singing along to Set Fire to the Rain, Sherlock ejected the CD and opened his window. John launched himself over the seat to wrestle with the tall detective for the CD.

"That's mine. Give it back," yelled John.

"Stop it. You will make an accident to happen. Don't make me stop this car!" yelled again, the car swerved wildly.

Sherlock held the CD just out of John's reach; John punched Sherlock's arm, yelling "Give it here. Give it back!"

"Fine, I am stopping. I am stopping the car!" Ahsan pulled the car over to the shoulder. A single truck passed by in the dark.

Sherlock and John finally froze when the CD cracked in half. "That's it, Sherlock Holmes! Now you owe me a new CD," huffed John. The army doctor threw himself back into his seat. "Let's go, Ahsan," said John.

"No. I am not driving because you are now being a lunatic too, John Watson. I will be taking a nap now. You will be out of my car now, and take Sherlock Holmes with you. Don't come back until you are done being idiots to each other," ordered Ahsan.

Strangely cowed by the intensity of the young man's glare, John straightened his hat and got out of the car. He jumped over the bone-dry drainage ditch and limped out into the dry grassland. He heard the detective scramble out of the car, slam the door shut and then quickly follow behind the soldier. John also heard the ominous click of the door locks. Ahsan was seriously pissed.

"John, I can see that I have made a serious error. I have several hypotheses, but I don't exactly understand what I did wrong. You know better than anyone, that I am not good in the areas of social conventions and relationships," said the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Sherlock followed his marching blogger into the field. The grass whispered in the cool evening breeze; the dry, dusty air, scented with grass and herbs, annoyed the detective. The inanely cheerful chirps of the crickets distracted and irritated him.

"John, you are my best friend. If you won't explain it to me, how will I understand what I did wrong? You know that I am curious about things. Last night I was investigating Victor Trevor. I had no intention of leaving for more than one night and in fact, I only spent a few hours with Vict…"

Furious, John spun around; predictably, his fists were clenched tight. "Are you kidding me? Are you having one over on me? Christ, Sherlock? I know you think I'm an idiot, but do you really think I'm that stupid? Really?" spat the doctor. He spun back around so fast, he made himself slightly dizzy.

He paced into the plains. The dry grasses hissed and murmured in the breeze, the sound slowly relaxed him. The singing of the crickets was a balm to his torn and ragged soul. The night air wafted past and cooled his burning cheeks.

He heard a sniffle behind him. Oh Christ, good one John. You made your best friend cry. He opened up and asked for help, and you were an asshole. Christ, thought John.

John stopped and chewed the inside of his cheek. He unconsciously took out his new Browning and examined it in the moonlight.

Sherlock stopped, slapped down by the one man he trusted. He couldn't understand, and John was never going to help him understand. John had said that they could still be friends, but John had lied. John had already left him.

"Sherlock," called John softly. "Tell me the truth. Do you really not understand? Do you actually care what upset me? Or is this all another act to get whatever it is you want from me?" asked John.

Sherlock was hurt by the distrust and suspicion. Still, he was curious; he wanted to understand. And he needed John. He needed to understand, because he couldn't afford to lose his blogger.

"John, I would not ask if I did not require the answer. I do in fact care, much more than you seem to believe. Please, will you please explain it to me," asked Sherlock, trying to wipe the horrid tear off his face.

He said please. He said please twice, thought John. I can't just leave him hanging; he's my best friend. And God help me, I love the man. Oh God, I still love him. "Right. OK. Give me a second to sort it out. I'm not a super genius like some people," grumbled John, standing defensively in Parade Rest.

"OK, first of all, Sherlock, I thought you were my friend," John held his hand up to stop the imminent interruption. "Just let me finish this, Sherlock. I thought you were my friend, but you told _him_ that I was your colleague. Then you let him insult me and say awful things about me in public. Friends don't let other people insult their best friends, Sherlock."

"But you never care when people insult you, John. And I know that you can take care of yourself. I am sorry if you were upset by me calling you my colleague, but you are my colleague," explained the confused detective.

"I realize that we are colleagues. I mistakenly thought we were something more. And, Sherlock, I don't give a rat's arse what Vicky thinks about me. And of course, I can take care of myself, especially against a wimp like him. I was hurt, Sherlock; I was devastated that _you_ didn't care what he said about me. I don't let people talk about you like that. Vicky learned that last night when he said something insulting about you in front of me."

And that leads to the other half of the problem," continued John, "Apparently, you and I had a major miscommunication regarding our, um, relationship. I know you don't do relationships but you see, you said somethings and you acted in such a way that, well, I actually thought that you cared about me. And since I'm deeply in love with you, um. Well, um, when I realized that you really don't care about me…I mean you dumped me for a bloody arse, like Victor. I mean; it only took you five minutes to forget me. It just, it just…Christ Sherlock, you probably won't believe me but there are such things as broken hearts. OK? You broke my heart. And I guess I realize that you did it unintentionally. And I forgive you. But I can't, I won't go through it again. I cannot be in a relationship when you might suddenly leave me because you found something or someone else more interesting. I can't be in a relationship with you and then just stand-by while you decide to flirt with someone else, and I don't give a damn what the excuse is." said John, his voice rising in volume and pitch.

Moriarty had tried and failed to burn out my heart, thought Sherlock. But I managed to burn up my own heart, stupidly and carelessly. How, thought Sherlock, how can I fix this; I have to fix John. Look at him; he's sad. Oh God, he's more than sad. He has that dead look in his eyes again.

I broke John. I broke my own heart. I'm supposed to be a genius; I have to be able to fix John.

The two men stood in the bright moonlight. John was already embarrassed by his emotional confession. Sherlock probably thinks I'm even more of an idiot than usual.

"John, I truly did not intend to hurt you. I respect you more than anyone on the face of this earth. You are more important to me than anyone," Sherlock spoke softly and watched John tense up again. "John, please understand me. The reason that I didn't respond to what Victor said was because I knew the truth and nothing he said mattered. However, since you are my best friend, I shall take care that you are not insulted in front of me, not ever."

"Fine, Sherlock. Fine," said John wearily.

"John, you are my colleague, you know. You are also my best friend and partner, and it seems that one of the problems is that I should have made all that clear to Victor. I honestly was not aware that a serious partnership could be dissolved by a dinner with someone or a few kisses or even a night of copulation, although copulation did not happen. John wait; don't walk away again! I'm not done yet. I do not want to end our partnership, John. I have done further research online today and it supports what you have been saying. I now know that popular culture would agree that I overstepped the line several times. I have also confirmed my findings by questioning several random subjects. I have learned that I cannot be in an exclusive intimate relationship and erotically kiss anyone, ever."

"Random subjects," interrupted John. "What random subjects?"

"A waiter, a construction worker, a barista, a nurse, Mrs. Hudson, Ahsan, DI Lestrade and Sally Donovan, to be precise," answered the detective. John's eyes goggled.

"Furthermore, I also cannot hug another person for more than ten seconds, except a very close relative," continued Sherlock. "I cannot hold hands with anyone other than my partner except in dire emergencies or with a small child or close relative such as Mummy. And never, never, under any circumstances, can I even consider having coitus with anyone other than my partner. I now fully understand that there are no exceptions to this rule. Of course, there are many other rules, John; I must not spend quality time with anyone instead of my partner, I must…"

"Sherlock!" yelled Captain Watson. "Please stop. OK, I'm impressed. I am very impressed with your, your energy and your resourcefulness. You have memorized a lot of good rules that will be useful if you find yourself in another relationship."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was probably going to explode any minute now. Remain calm, John told himself. "The problem for me, Sherlock, isn't just the rules. It's a matter of who and what we each really want. I want love and a committed, exclusive relationship. You want… I don't know what you want, companionship and a carte blanche to satisfy your curiosity? And I hope you actually want my friendship. We can't have a relationship beyond friendship because we feel different things and want different things. Can you understand that? I hope so; I really hope so, because your friendship is really, really important to me." John's voice caught and he turned away. Soldiers are tough as nails. Soldiers never cry. I can do this, because I am a soldier, thought John.

"John, you are mistaken. I want the same things. I want love and a committed, exclusive relationship with you," said Sherlock, stepping closer to John.

"Sherlock! We don't feel the same way. It _can not_ work!" snapped John.

"John, I love you," said the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"No. No, I won't go there. No. Just leave me alone, Sherlock Holmes. Don't touch me!" John half-ran further into the rolling plain that bordered the highway. That arse, that bloody son of bitch, he just played me like his stupid violin, thought the doctor. And I'm falling for it. He said exactly what I wanted to hear, and now I'm falling for it. How stupid does he think I am? Oh God, how stupid am I?

John kept up his limping run until his foot slid into a hole, some kind of burrow. Stupid rabbit warren probably, or maybe a stupid prairie dog hole, thought John. I could have broken my stupid leg by falling in a stupid prairie dog hole.

John walked a couple of meters watching for more booby-trap burrows. As he climbed a small rise, John sniffed the arid, grass-filled breeze. Its acrid tang reminded him of Afghanistan, which reminded him of insurgents, ambushes and IED's . He stood still and surveyed the area for mobsters, terrorists, hoards of prairie dogs or packs of wild coyotes.

When no threats materialized, John sat down heavily on the small hill. He took out his new Browning and checked the safety. He looked up; the headlights from a passing truck illuminated the rental car parked along the roadside. The soldier could just make out the silhouette of the tall, thin detective standing a couple hundred meters away.

It would be better if a coyote did attack him, thought John, then that cunning detective wouldn't tempt him. That stupid arrogant dick, who now pretended to love him. Christ, it's only been a day, and I'm ready to forgive and forget, thought John. I can't keep fighting this on top of everything else.

He smelled the gun oil from his Browning. How would the barrel feel in his mouth? How would it taste? He felt compelled to try it; the urge was stronger than ever.

John put the barrel of the gun in his mouth. It was cold, hard and had a bitter, metallic taste, sort of like blood. He fingered the cold, hard trigger. Imagine, no more heartache, no more fighting, no more nightmares or memories.

Sherlock watched his blogger run away from him. He had finally confessed his love for John, and it drove John away. Sherlock wanted to crawl away to die. He craved the drugs that John had destroyed last night. But he had to stand guard over his John. The usually confident detective had never felt so helpless.

Sherlock watched as John stumbled; the detective's hand reached out involuntarily as if to catch the smaller man. Sherlock took out the binoculars that he secretly borrowed from John's ridiculously over stuffed backpack.

John settled on a small hill. He'll get his clothes filthy from all this _nature. _Oh yes, John, by all means play with one of your stupid guns again, the detective thought caustically.

The bile rose in Sherlock's throat, as the soldier raised the gun and placed it in his mouth.

"NO!" roared the detective, sprinting towards the hill. "No, John. Wait. NO!"

Sherlock stumbled in the dark. There was a flash and the sharp retort of a pistol blast, its thunder echoing over the dark and empty plains. The little hill was empty; John was gone.

"John!" screamed Sherlock. He could hardly control his limbs as he scrambled towards the hill.

**A/N** Um, I regret to inform you that a cliffhanger developed in spite of my best intentions.

Kos minar-medieval milestones built by the Afghan Ruler Sher Shah Suri and also later Mughal emperors in South Asia. Some kos minars, and more often their ruins, can be found along the sites of ancient Indian Highways, particularly along the Grand Trunk Road which runs from Bangladesh through India and Pakistan to Kabul, Afghanistan.

**Disclaimer**-Much to my chagrin, I still don't own the rights to Sherlock or Watson. This fic is intended only for the entertainment of myself and like-minded Johnlock Shippers.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N** This is just a short chapter, (with a long A/N), but I didn't want anyone to hate me over the weekend, especially 'Stop No' who implied that I actually like to torture readers (of course I don't) and Guest, who I cruelly left trapped on a roller coaster. Not to mention, I felt that I owed a chapter to Wicked Winter and power0girl. In fact, I felt a tad guilty (just a tad, mind you) for the cliffhanger (again). Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me on this fic and followed my story and especially everyone who kindly took the time to review-this is for all of you.

**Chapter 17**

I'm an idiot, thought John. Thank God there's no one here to see this. How dumb... how stupid am I? He slowly pulled the barrel of the gun from out of his mouth. This is even dumber than streaking with Micky at that New Year's Eve party…

The soldier started when he heard a panicky Sherlock shout, "NO."

'What the hell? Sherlock!' thought John. He jerked clumsily to his feet, tripping over a branch.

At his feet, the branch made a loud buzzing rattle, "Stt, stt, stt, stttt, stttt, sttt."

His eyes widened, and he raised his gun. A large rattlesnake coiled up into the air and lunged, striking John's foot hard. John slipped off the safety and fired pointblank. The soldier threw himself away from the reptile and rolling down the hill.

Heart pounding, John stood and listened again for the telltale rattle. He caught sight of the twitching, nearly decapitated body of the rattler.

Sherlock called his name. John pivoted and ran to rescue his lover. Oh God, now what? What if _he _was bit by a rattlesnake?"Sherlock!" gasped the army doctor.

John came around the hill and collided into the half-sobbing detective. Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and violently shook him. "You idiot!" yelled the detective.

"What the...hell? Wha…?" the doctor tried to ask as his teeth rattled.

The frenzied detective shook John again and then punched him. The stunned blogger fell backwards; the fall knocked the breath out of his lungs with wheezing whoosh.

John gasped, a fish out of water trying to catch his breath. Sherlock took advantage of John's momentary shock. The taller man yanked the Browning out of John's hand and the Sig Sauer out of his shoulder holster. He shoved the guns into his pocket then angrily wiped the tears off of his face with a sleeve.

Sherlock glared down at his wide-eyed blogger. The tall man panted heavily, his jaw set and neck rigid with fury at the smaller blond that had so terrified him.

Ahsan called out to them in the distance.

"What…What the hell, Sherlock? Why'd you hit me?" gasped John finally. "What was... all that…bloody screaming? Are you alright?" asked John breathing heavily and rubbing his jaw.

The doctor struggled to sit up, and then ducked just in time, as Sherlock swung at him again. "Idiot! Thank god, you missed. If you ever try to hurt yourself again…" snarled Sherlock.

"What he hell? You're the idiot, idiot!" yelled John, blocking another punch. "I did not miss that great, hulking snake, you idiot. Stop hitting me!" John caught the detective's right fist with his hands, and rolled so that Sherlock's left-handed slap only grazed his cheek. "Stop it! If you hit me again, I swear to God…"

"Oh my God! Oh my God! What happened! Who is shot? Are you shot, John Watson? You are killing each other now? Stop fighting!" Ahsan pulled the detective away from the embattled doctor who was half-lying in the grass supported by his elbow.

Then, John struggled to stand up, swaying a bit but fists raised in challenge, "Sod this. Sod this! He's trying to kill me! God only knows why!" yelled John. "First, I get bit by the rattlesnake, then he…"

"Oh my God! Oh my God! You are cursed! Everything bad, it happens to you, John Watson. Now you are bit by a poisonous snake! Quickly, should we suck out the poison? Get out a knife. Wait, I have a knife,"

John side-stepped away from the knife wielding Pakistani towards the dubious protection of the detective.  
"Or should we get to the car; yes, yes, we'll go to a hospital. Stop shaking him Sherlock Holmes! He'll go into shock now. We should carry him to the car now," finally, Ahsan was forced to stop talking in order to take a breath.

"Tell me where it bit you John!" demanded the detective with another shake of his short, blond companion. "Where does it hurt? You need a tourniquet."

"Jesus Christ! Stand down, both of you!" yelled Captain John Watson, his hands tightly fisted. "The snake bit my foot, no the other one Sherlock. See, you can see the fang marks in the boot. Look, I'm trying to tell you, I'm fine. I don't think it went through the boot, so it's all fine. _Will _you stop yanking at my foot?"

Sherlock tugged John's boot off, which overbalanced the blond, and he tumbled to the ground again. Sherlock straddled the doctor's legs, facing his feet. He needed to keep his blogger still as he pulled off the sock.

"I need a light," demanded Sherlock running his hands over John's foot and lower leg. Surrendering, John dug out his convenient LED pocket torch. He now kept two with him at all times.

"Check his other foot and leg, Ahsan," Ordered the frantic detective flashing the light over John's extremity. Ahsan complied by ripping off John's other boot and sock. John, resigned to his fate, lay quietly in the grass, his arms tightly crossed over his chest. He glared as they examined both of John's feet and legs using John's handy pocket torches.

At long last, they were satisfied that John was uninjured. The doctor irritably retied his boot laces. "I told you, I was fine. I _am_ the medical expert here. Now, I am going to go get my snake, if it's all the same to you two," John informed them.

John, his limp forgotten, led them to the other side of the rise and found the nearly meter long, diamondback rattlesnake. The soldier pulled his bowie-knife out of its sheath and chopped the head off of the snake.

John proudly picked up the carcass and began marching back to the car. Ahsan kept his distance, muttering in Urdu. The army doctor rattled the snake's tail a couple of times, inordinately pleased with the sound. With every rattle, the young Pakistani cringed, and the detective rolled his eyes.

"That snake is not coming into my car, John Watson," announced Ahsan decisively. "I do not like snakes, and I most especially do not want a poisonous snake in my car."

"But it's not alive, Ahsan, I just cut off its head," protested the soldier. "Anyway, it's not just your car."

Ahsan shook his head unconvinced. "No snakes, John Watson," insisted the young driver his arms crossed.

John blinked and tried again, "Well, actually I was thinking of cooking it for dinner so..."

Ahsan covered his mouth with his hand, trying not to gag. He ran to the car, safely locking himself inside once again.

"John, I regret that we do not have time to, ah, cook your snake. It also would appear that our good friend, Ahsan, will not be able to drive with this snake in the car," said Sherlock, smoothing down the front of his suit as if nothing had happened.

"Oh, I see," hissed John with narrowed eyes, very like a snake. "First, I'm supposed to just leave my snake here without even cooking it. And, secondly, Ahsan gets to be another good friend of yours, while I'm still just a colleague and your personal punching bag."

Sherlock grasped John by his biceps.

"Don't touch me," intoned the disgruntled doctor.

Sherlock pulled John in closer, "Stop it. Just stop it, John. You are not just my colleague nor are you just my friend. You are my best friend and my partner," said Sherlock intently, his voice low and deep. John's eyes grew large, and then he quickly turned his head away. "John, I wish you to remain my partner. I believe that you still wish to be my partner; it is the only explanation for your erratic behavior."

John's head whipped back around. "My erratic behavior? _My_ erratic behavior? You're the crazy man. You just hit me. You just tried to beat the shite out of me. What the hell did you hit me for anyway?" demanded the doctor.

'I had to hit you to get the guns away from you" answered Sherlock. "I regret that I lost control and hit you again. I was very angry. I saw you put the gun in your mouth, John. I thought you killed yourself, tonight. Can you not understand? I cannot live without you."

For several seconds, John's mouth gaped like a fish again. "Well, um, I just wondered what it, um felt like. Look, OK, I admit it was stupid," said the doctor chagrined, "But, Sherlock, I need the guns back to fight off snakes."

"John, forget the snakes! Use your tiny brain and concentrate. I have analyzed your behavior. I have concluded that you currently feel jealousy and betrayal. However, your irrational behavior is apparently normal behavior for a normal person who feels that they have been betrayed. I am responsible for this. I behaved incorrectly for a man in a committed relationship. According to my research, I am now supposed to wait patiently for you to move on from your anger and hurt caused by my perceived infidelity. I must also apologize profusely and assure you that I will not repeat my mistakes. Well, John, I have been very patient for nearly a whole day. I have apologized more today than I ever have before in my entire life. Since I am a genius, I can learn from my mistakes faster than anyone so I can safely assure you that I will not make the same mistakes ever again. I have studied all this,. and I now know the rules. I can follow rules if I want to, John. I sincerely promise not to violate any of the guidelines put forth by the relationship experts."

John's mouth still worked, continuing his fish imitation. He was bewildered by Sherlock's exceptional (for him) patience, his profuse (for him) apologies but it was the relationship experts that really confounded the doctor.

He finally asked, "Who? What experts?"

"Wikipedia, Psychology Today and Glamour Magazine to name just a few, John. Now you should give me another chance. You are supposed to give me another chance if I am truly contrite, which of course I am. I have one final suggestion, and I have considered this at length, John. All of the experts state that if you, the wronged partner, so choose, we should undergo couples therapy to renew your trust in me. Honestly, I do feel that counseling would be extremely unpleasant. Still, if it will satisfy you, I will undertake it," finished the detective, his face inches from John's face.

"Oh God, no. No couples counseling," muttered the doctor, horrified at the prospect of turning Sherlock loose onto an innocent, unsuspecting therapist.

John has not said no, thought Sherlock. The detective pressed his advantage.

"You kissed Mary Morestan," the detective waved aside his blogger's protests, "Yes, a different circumstance, but still many kisses were involved. Not to mention, you were in bed with her, and she was wearing next to nothing, John," Sherlock tilted his head and sucked in his lower lip. Still, he didn't dare loosen his vice-like hold on his blogger just yet.

Sherlock was at his most persuasive. He was probably using that mind control thing, again. John was secretly convinced that Sherlock had some kind of psychic powers over John Watson, if not over anyone else.

Still and all, Sherlock _was_ right about Mary. And it in the end it was a one night dalliance with Vicky, no, only a several hours dalliance. And since when do I use words like dalliance. This was just further proof of Sherlock's psychic powers.

And Sherlock chose John in the end. Without any prompting, he did chose John over that tosser Vicky.

"Do I get my gun back, if I say we can try again?" asked John, his resolve weakening under the influence of Sherlock's reasoning, the apologies, Glamour Magazine and the consulting detective's piercing eyes, which glittered like ice in the moonlight.

"Yes, John, as long as you swear as an officer and a gentleman not to hurt yourself, kill yourself and stop playing with your guns," said the detective, sensing victory. He leaned in closer, breathing in the heady scent of John Watson; he gripped his blogger painfully tight to prevent any last-minute escape attempts.

"What if we meet up with that tosser Vicky again, or, or… Irene Adler for that matter," asked John, pressing his lips together in suspicion and glaring anew from under his lowered brows.

"John, the Woman is dead…" began Sherlock.

"AHA!" barked Captain Watson, shaking his snake at the detective. "Lies! You were supposed to think she was in a witness protection program, but then, thinking you were clever, you pretended to know that she was dead, which is what Mycroft said all along. But I know that you know that she isn't dead, because you didn't mourn her! HA! You're not the only one who can deduce, Mr. Genius. So there! So what about when she shows up again, all alive and sexy and slinky and so intelligent and so very interesting, hmmm?" John asked angrily, trying to pull out of the detective's grasp.

"The Woman can not possibly tempt me, John. Nevertheless, if anyone, including the Woman, attempts to flirt with me, I must tell them that I am in a permanent, exclusive relationship with you and not available. If they persist, I must leave, even if I am on a case, unless you are with me and are comfortable with the interaction. If Victor returns, I shall hit him for you. I shall kill him for you, if you wish. Now, are you satisfied," Sherlock leaned back in again but waited for John to make the next move-as per the recommendations of Glamour Magazine.

"Exclusive and permanent relationship?" asked John, the words echoing in his head.

"Yes, John. That is what I want, exclusive and permanent. I cannot go through this, over and over again. I need you," said the detective, pulling John closer and closer.

"Can I check the rules list _and_ add to it anytime I want to?" whispered John.

"Certainly, John. Anything, anytime," Sherlock's breath ghosted across John's lips.

He stared at John's bright eyes, shining in the dim light. Then the detective licked his lips.

John lowered his eyes from the detective's sharp eyes and focused on his plump lips, he watched while Sherlock licked them.

"I love you, John Watson," said the detective. He could feel John's resistance crumbling; his blogger relaxed into his grasp. Victory thrilled though his veins.

John raised his lips to Sherlock's. Relief flooded the blogger, as Sherlock's warm lips caressed his lips, and Sherlock's tongue claimed his mouth. The feel, smell and taste of Sherlock overwhelmed the doctor's senses. He was alone in a universe that held only the breeze, the stars and Sherlock Holmes.

"John," moaned Sherlock. His tongue explored his lover's mouth. He tasted John again. It was illogical, but it felt as if he had been apart from John for months, rather than a day and a night. He would have to conduct experiments on time perception as it related to interactions with John. Later. The experiments would have to wait until later.

Sherlock drew his lover in as close as possible. John filled that emptiness in his chest. Sherlock wanted to shield John from any more hurt. He never wanted to see that hopeless look in John's eyes again.

John ravished Sherlock's neck with kisses. He bit down hard and marked his detectives neck, drawing a groan from the taller man.

Then he froze. "Wait. Wait, stop!" demanded John, pulling back abruptly.

Sherlock, sighed, remembering rule number one, be patient.

"If someone comes on to you, am I allowed to stop him or her? Can I ask you to stop and come with me? I don't have to be polite, do I? Can I punch their sodding faces through the floor if I want to?" asked John angrily, his forehead creased and his free hand fisting in Sherlock's jacket.

"Yes, John," agreed the consulting detective. He tried to drag his lover back into his arms. His chest felt cold and empty again, with John standing just out of arm's reach. "But, you can only punch them as a last resort. I do not relish having to break you out of jail, and then living the remainder of our lives together on the run," said Sherlock with a small upturn of his lips. John succumbed to the smile and leaned back in, encircling Sherlock's waist with one hand. The other hand still clutched the snake.

Sherlock clutched his blogger to his chest. He kissed the blond's soft hair, burying his nose in the soft bristles, and then he ran his lips across John's rough cheeks. He placed a chain of kisses down his lover's yielding neck, continuing over to his Adam's apple. Nuzzling John's neck, Sherlock finally relaxed for the first time since seeing stupid Victor Trevor.

After several minutes, John stopped to catch his breath; while his lover bit and sucked at his neck. The dazed soldier tilted his head to allow the detective full access to John's neck. The army doctor watched a truck fly past, reminding him that he was not, in fact, in a private little universe. He was snogging the World's Only Consulting Detective in a field along a major highway, and his other team member sat in a locked car less that half a block away.

"Sherlock. Sherlock? Stop. Sherlock, what if Ahsan is watching? We should, um, maybe we should go,"suggested John reluctantly.

Sherlock straightened up and smoothed the front of his suit. "I shall notify Ahsan to ready himself for departure, while you bury your snake," said Sherlock, smirking at the bruises all along his lover's neck.

As soon as Sherlock turned to saunter over to the car, John surreptitiously cut the rattles off the dead snake and wrapped them in a pair of extra socks from his backpack. Then John sadly buried his intended dinner. Ahsan watched from a cautious distance. The doctor made a show out of scrubbing his hands in front of Ahsan, proving that no snake contamination would enter Ahsan's car. After a brief inspection, the young man permitted John to climb into the backseat.

Sherlock handed both guns back to his blogger. John cautiously checked them for Sherlockian sabotage before placing them into their holsters. "You owe me a hat, Sherlock Holmes. You knocked it off, when you punched me."

The car began to speed down the highway. The consulting detective silently handed John the fedora, only slightly crumpled.

"Well, you still owe me a replacement CD," he told the detective as Ahsan gained speed, racing down the empty road.

"John, just download some music onto your phone," suggested Sherlock, still smiling smugly to himself.

However, the soldier in the backseat looked thunderous in the light from the dashboard.

"Ah," the detective rapidly deduced his doctor. "Evidently, you are unable to download; perhaps you don't have the passwords. I shall download the music for you. I will give you my earbuds and buy you an adapter for the car and spare earbuds at the next stop."

Sherlock efficiently loaded Adele onto John's phone. The detective also added a selection of classical music just to broaden his blogger's tiny mind a tiny bit.

**A/N1.1** Note to 'Guest'-I admit my characters are often very OOC but that's how they write themselves. You should see how OOC they are in the rough drafts before I have to ruthlessly whip them into character, then again, maybe not ;P

Anyway, they have more fun this way and so do I.

I am very glad that you like the fic anyway. Thank you to "Guest" and all the reviewers that I am unable to PM.

Also thank you again to everyone who has taken the time to review this fic. Your input means a lot and it helps to shape and improve my writing.

**Disclaimer-**I do not own the rights to Sherlock or Watson, which is really too bad for me.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N **For those who are into such things, I listened to a lot of Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run album during the writing of this chapter.

Needless to say neither Springsteen and the E-Street band nor Sir ACD and Moffat/Gatiss are responsible for the following nonsense. I must take full responsibility…

ps Thanks to ChandlerBourdette and I'm Nova for correcting my latin (Which I have now edited. Sorry for my lapsus calami [well technically I just misspelled it dreadfully but lapsus calami makes me look knowledgable {or pretentious}].) Thank you to both of you and to everyone sends reviews and comments ;D

**Chapter 18**

_It is 3am, the milky way stretched overhead_, _like diamonds,_ no, that sounds too trite, _like crystals of magnesium sulfate_. No, no, no that sound too chemically. Dammit, it all just sounds stupid.

Forget the stupid stars, thought John, crossly. He scratched out his first notebook entry and tried a different approach.

_0300 hours. Stopped for gas at a rancid little station in the middle of nowhere, in the bloody State of Texas. The coffee sucks. I just had to drink three cups of sucky coffee. Ahsan is still weirded out over The Snake Incident. And BTW I was forced to bury my snake against my will and I'm sure we had plenty of time to cook it but they (Sherlock and Ahsan) were just being squeamish sissies. _

_All night long, Sherlock has been doing that thing where he stares at me and doesn't talk, in fact ever since we supposedly made up. Maybe we didn't really makeup and I just thought we did. __That man is certifiable and __he's making me certifiable too__ No. He__ has__ made me certifiable too. Now of course, my flat mate has mysteriously disappeared. Never mind. Stupid Sherlock. (And I don't care if you read this, you git, because I already know that you will.) _:(

John slammed his notebook shut. It was his third notebook since he began this ill-fated trip to the United States. The first notebook was in the hands of Jones and his Men-in-Black; the second was at the bottom of the Delaware River.

Maybe I should just forget the whole keeping-notes-so-I-can-write-a-book idea, thought John. Hell, I'll be lucky to make it to Asia before I get blown up or drown or someone kidnaps me. And then I'll lose this notebook too. John glowered at the empty lot. He watched Ahsan try to open a bottle of Dr. Pepper. John did not offer to help Ahsan, because he was too irritable worrying over the stupid consulting detective.

Then too, John considered, his irritability might be due the three cups of sucky coffee on top of all the other coffee he had that day. And of course not eating for over a day…

'Too much caffeine and poor nutrition is bad for your health' stated John's inner doctor from deep within John's newly designed Mind Fortress. "Oh, shut it," John muttered to himself.

Yep, this makes me a nutter too, thought John. He hoped that he hadn't muttered _that_ out-loud.

John stood, with his arms crossed over his chest, in front of a dingy cinderblock building. The single, working lamppost hummed in the parking lot of the isolated gas station. Moths flew around the light, like so many tiny, flying Watson's attracted to a brilliant Holmes.

John chuckled to himself, pleased with his clever metaphor. He did not write it down in his notebook since Sherlock would eventually steal the book. There was no reason to inflate the detective's ego more than it already was.

Stupid Sherlock. John honestly didn't know from one minute to the next where he stood with the World's Only Consulting Detective.

Was it only yesterday that Sherlock had gone off with that wanker, Vicky? Then, the consulting git came back to John, like everything was supposed to be just fine. Then tonight the consulting detective said The Words, out loud. He actually said, 'I love you,' to Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. And then for the last several hours, the crazy man had stared at John but said nothing at all.

It was all crazy.

This, on top of two days with no sleep, made John a very, dull boy. Not to mention cranky. And yet he was still full of nervous energy.

It was a pity that Sherlock was hiding. Of course, there was no privacy anyway. But it was still a pity because John was suddenly very… well; _horny_ was the word that came to mind. Wait, that definitely qualified as a **Not Appropriate at This Time **idea. John quickly stuffed that not-appropriate-at-this-time thought into his Mind Palace, no, no Mind Fortress. He was a soldier, and he was going to store his ideas in a mental military facility.

Or is that a military mental facility. Yep, I'm a nutter.

What on earth was Sherlock doing? Maybe he should look for the crazy detective. After all, John wasn't mad at him anymore, well not much. Sherlock had apologized, which in itself was exceptional, really. But still, the detective had treated John rather badly, and John felt entitled to something …more. He felt entitled to… well, to some make-up sex. No, he was entitled to a lot of make-up sex. Preferably, make-up sex against a wall, or in a shower or both, yeah…

Ummph! The detective magically reappeared and shoved his blogger into the grimy wall. Hell yeah! That's more like it, wall sex. But isn't this a bit too public?

"Sherlock, isn't this a bit…" John's question was blocked by the detective's hand covering his mouth.

"John, do you never pay attention?" whispered Sherlock in a vicious hiss. "An entire gang is converging on Ahsan. Now, I want you to stay in the office, gun at the ready, until I come for you."

John's eyes grew wide in confusion. He saw several men creeping up on the poor, unsuspecting Pakistani-American who drank his while resting in the silver rental car. Several more assailants moved in the shadows behind the gas station.

The army captain felt himself lifted bodily off the ground and then thrown into the tiny station's office. Sherlock disappeared, as the door slammed in John's face. Right.

The pallid young night clerk stared at John with large, moist, round eyes. The radio blared tragic love and heartache.

"You!" John jabbed his finger toward the cringing clerk. "Give me the video from your security camera." It may have been John's authoritative officer's voice or it may have been the Browning in his hand, but the clerk instantly obeyed, ripping the video recording out of the machine.

"Right," said the Captain. "Drop down and hide. Call 999 or 919 or whatever you guys call. And don't get up until the police get here." John grasped the door handle and looked back.

"I said drop!" he barked. The clerk dropped out of sight behind the counter, or maybe he just fainted.

The soldier pulled back the slide on his Browning and fingered off the safety. He flicked a light switch killing the office lights. Then he burst through the door, gun extended, following after the consulting detective.

After seeing his John safely secured, Sherlock had launched himself at the nearest target. Sherlock had barreled into the shaggy, bearded man and stunned him with a hand jab to the throat. Two others had converged on the detective. He dove into the knees of one and heard a satisfying crack, no doubt a dislocation or possibly a torn ligament. As the disabled attacker rolled on the ground clutching his leg, he tripped up his taller accomplice. Sherlock jumped up only to be grabbed round the neck by a large black man in dreadlocks. Sherlock noted the man's lack of hygiene even as he was effectively throttled.

Ahsan, his new Bowie knife extended had jumped out to help Sherlock. He was instantly engaged by a grizzled, thick-set man who circled Ahsan warily. A half-dozen more men crept out of the shadows to join the fight.

John saw that Sherlock was in critical danger and that they were seriously outnumbered. John tried to quell his panic for Sherlock and think. He gambled that the attackers were really there only to nab John Watson.

"Oi, you lot. I'm over here," called the soldier, using his best parade ground voice.

John was simultaneously gratified and appalled as the attackers turned en mass and headed straight for him. However, the muscular black man dropped Sherlock from his chokehold and charged toward the short, blond. So far, so good.

At first, Sherlock lay as if stunned, and John was relieved when he saw the tall man scramble to his feet and run toward the car pushing the young, knife wielding driver into the car.

Not just good, excellent, for once the detective was smart and safe. John could concentrate on fighting these bastards now.

John fired rapidly at the legs of his attackers. Two men seemed to fall, and most of the rest dove out of the line of fire. A few very brave or very stupid men (one and the same, according to Mycroft), continued to charge at John.

There were still too many men and not enough rounds or time left.

It was time for plan B, thought the army doctor, and John only ever had one plan B. John turned tail and ran like hell toward the highway. His arms pumped in time with his legs. John pivoted once to make sure that the gang followed him and did not turn on his friends. The mob was close, much too close. John could hear their harsh panting breaths and muttered curses.

John shot three more rounds at his pursuers who dropped back. John spun around again and fled down the empty road. Run faster, John Watson. Bloody hell just run, he thought. He was already feeling his side burn, from the prolonged sprint. His breath was getting short.

He had maybe, what? Maybe, seven rounds remaining in the mag…. Ten or more men following… Why, the bloody hell, had he left the Sig in the boot?... Stupid! Idiot! …Why wasn't he carrying a spare magazine?... Double, stupid idiot.

Christ, at least one bastard was shooting at John. What happened to the "they won't risk hurting John Watson" theory?...How much longer could John keep up this pace?... Did Sherlock and Ahsan get away? Please let Sherlock get away safely.

Someone broke out of the pack and caught up to John. They dragged him down. John fell heavily across the dusty black top, skinning his hands and knees. John rolled and fired point-blank into his assailant's shoulder. The lanky, bald man screamed. Ignoring the writhing man, John got up onto one knee and fired three more rounds into his pursuit; they scattered again, briefly.

Increasingly short of breath, John launched himself back into his escape.

Run, John, run. He pulled in deep burning breaths…. His side and shoulder competed for the prize of most painful body part… Wait, his lungs wanted in on the competition too… Maybe it's time for the final showdown, he thought desperately...He gasped for breath...He readied himself to turn and shoot to kill...He could probably take out three or four...

He heard the screech of tires and shouts. Apparently, a car had driven straight through the pursuers. Now the car bore down on the flagging doctor; the silver rental car screeched to a stop in front of the gasping army doctor. The back door burst open.

"Get in!" thundered Sherlock. The pursuers opened fire in earnest. John braced himself to return fire. BAM. BAM. Two more shots left. BAM. One shot left.

The detective reached out and unceremoniously yanked John into the car by his waist. Ahsan sped up immediately while Sherlock fought to keep hold of his doctor and slam the back car door shut.

"Idiot! What the hell was that maneuver?" the detective yelled at army doctor. "You could have been killed…"

"Shut up!" demanded John, gulping in deep breaths. "and lemme go." John began to rummage in his pack. Dammit, what is all this useless stuff in my pack? And when exactly had John Watson become portable, he wondered to himself? Frankly, it was embarrassing the way Sherlock just kept picking him up and tossing him around tonight.

"I told you to wait in the office," said Sherlock, his deep voice booming.

A round hit the back window, shattering the glass in place. Cracks spider-webbed out in all directions.

"You're the idiot!" gasped John. "I just saved your bloody life," The soldier triumphantly pulled a fresh magazine out from his backpack.

"Ahsan and I had the situation well in hand," said the detective.

"Yes, maybe it was well in hand then, but now maybe things are not so good because they are shooting a lot at us! I am thinking that maybe we need a new plan. Maybe we are going to die now!" yelled Ahsan.

"Like hell!" yelled John. His handgun, loaded and cocked, John took a deep breath and then stuck his arms and head out of the passenger side door. A dark van chased them and gun fire erupted from both sides of the vehicle. John began to return fire. He hit the van several times causing it to swerve, but it stayed on their tail.

"John, where's your other gun?" demanded the detective. A bullet took out the side-view mirror. "Oh for God's sake, John, get back in the car!" yelled Sherlock. His gut churned as he envisioned a bullet striking his blogger.

"Oh my God, we are certainly all going to die," yelled Ahsan frantically.

"Take evasive action, Ahsan," ordered John. "You know, serpentine, serpentine!" The soldier waved his hand in the John Watson international sign for serpentine. John fired off the rest of his rounds. He nearly fell out of the window as Ahsan tried to drive in serpentine pattern.

Sherlock grabbed John's legs and slowly dragged his blogger back in the car. Ahsan muttered steadily to himself in Urdu.

Since the mag was emptied, John let the detective pull him all the way back in. He fell back into the rear-seat in order to reload his Browning.

"John, will you stay down! Stop playing the hero!" ordered Sherlock.

John gave his detective a maniacal grin. "Here, reload the mags, Sherl," ordered John, dumping the empty mags and a box of cartridges in the detectives lap. Then the blond launched himself half out of the window again. He fired at the van emptying his mag but did no serious damage to the enemy target.

He grabbed a reloaded mag from Sherlock. The soldier popped out the empty mag and slapped the new mag in. He returned to the window to fire at the dark van, which was certainly closer. A man leaned out from the van and began firing back at John.

The wind stripped John's hair toward his face and pulled tears out of his eyes. The van was directly behind them. He fired twice to put the fear of God in them. "Pull into the other lane, Ahsan. The other lane!" ordered Captain Watson. Waving his free hand to show the John Watson international sign for lane change.

The car, traveling nearly 100 mph, swerved into the other lane. Shots from the van flew past them; a few more hit the back of the car. The lane change gave John a much better sight line towards the van. Using two hands to steady his aim, John fired repeatedly at the tires of the van. The front driver's side tire blew out. The van careened back and forth across the highway.

Ahsan pulled back into his lane as a truck sped by in the opposite direction, air horn blaring. The truck narrowly missed both the car and the van.

The van finally spun out of control and crashed into the fields, flipping onto its side.

"Whoo-who!" screamed the soldier. "And tango is down!" He banged on the roof of the car before slipping back on the back seat.

He tried to high-five the detective, but Sherlock had apparently turned into a statue, an angry-looking statue. John blinked, and then leaned forward to high-five Ahsan with a few more "Damns and Whoo-whos".

"Oh my God, John Watson. You are one crazy dude. Oh my God, you must be 005. You are so better than James Bond!" enthused Ahsan. "Bam, Bam you shot them down! Better than Dirty Harry. Whah-ho!" He turned to high-five John again, making the car swerve.

"Well, you and Sherlock weren't so shabby neither! Taking on that gang like that," giggled John, giddy with adrenaline and relief. "And you're a pretty hot driver, dude, with that awesome evasive action. You gave me that last shot, you know," He added, clapping Ahsan on his shoulder with a huge grin splitting his face.

John Watson had nearly died again. It was intolerable. Sherlock could not protect his blogger if the blogger didn't follow Sherlock's orders. The idiot deliberately goaded the mob into attacking idiot. It was the most idiotic thing Sherlock had ever seen. It was the bravest thing he had ever seen. He would have burst with pride if he wasn't so nauseous from his fear for John's safety.

Sherlock could never tell John how heroic and dashing he found the doctor. It would only encourage more reckless, foolhardy behavior. In fact, he needed to prevent the doctor from engaging in any similar activity.

When he finally spoke, Sherlock's cold, deep voice lowered itself to a new all-time low, his baritone approached absolute zero. "John," he began repressively. "I told you to wait in the office. They are after you, not me and not Ahsan. We had the situation under control. Your foolhardy heroics were unneeded. You put yourself at risk. You could have been hurt or captured," Just speaking the words caused something in Sherlock's chest to shatter painfully. "If I believed in miracles, then it would be a miracle that you weren't hit by a bullet just now…"

"I believe in miracles," said John, who smiled cheekily at his miraculous detective. Then the army doctor stuck his head out of the window to check for pursuit. No more catching John Watson unawares, thank you very much.

"Whoooh! All clear; no tangos in sight. Damn!" yelled John, with a fist pump.

John leaned back in to the car. Sherlock's pale face was tense and vibrating with anger. His neck was doing that rigid, corded-muscle thing that he usually saved for Mycroft.

Bit not good, that, thought John, eyeing his furious flatmate and biting his lip.

"That is irrelevant. You were irresponsible, and you didn't follow instructions….blah, blah, blah…" The continuous, rumbles of verbal artillery from the angry detective probably should have intimidated John or at least sobered him up. But the colder and more furious Sherlock got and the lower that voice got. It resonated in John's chest.

Oh God, that voice really turned him on.

Well, fuck yeah! Why not? John was high. High on caffeine, sleep deprivation, adrenaline, and victory. This was exactly like being on a special ops mission in Afghanistan. Except it was better. It was better because Sherlock 'sexy-pouty-lips' Holmes was right here. Right within arms reach.

John felt his mind running away with crazy ideas like wall sex and sex in the back of rental cars. No, wait, remember **Not Appropriate at This Time**?

Right. Stand down, Captain Watson! John bit his lip hard, and tried to look serious. He tried to concentrate on Sherlock's diatribe. His wide eyes stared at the tall man next to him.

Sherlock was still incensed and still nattering on, "Do you ever use that tiny brain of yours to good purpose? In what alternate universe is it a good idea for the target of mafia kidnappers to run out the door, challenge the mobsters, shoot at his attackers and then run blindly down the highway, with a supposedly bad knee, in fact? What were you hoping for, a deus ex machina?"

John blinked and pursed his lips. Actually a deus ex machina would have been a good thing, really. But without one, John had had no choice. John did what had to be done, of course.

"Well, you were about to get the shite beat out of you," he suggested slowly, but gradually he picked up steam. "And we were hopelessly outnumbered, so naturally I had to flank them and draw their fire, so to speak. I took a few out, to even the odds. and then I out ran the rest, mostly, except that one, and I shot him, and that gave you the time to flank them again in the tank, I mean car, and well, here we are." John finished with a brilliant smile.

The detective's head reared back and his eyes narrowed, uh oh, he looks like a snake about to strike, thought John. Clearly, Sherlock didn't appreciate John's military acumen.

The doctor was fairly sure that Sherlock would not respond well to the rest of John's explanation either. So, the army doctor did not bring up the fact that John would do anything to protect Sherlock Holmes.

John also did not mention that it was becoming pretty damn obvious that it was only a matter of time before one of the many assorted bad guys caught John and then…Well, yeah, John sighed. John chewed his lips and kept those arguments locked inside his Mind Fortress and hidden from the detective under the scores of the latest football matches and John's lists of cast member's from Dr. Who, Star Wars and Lord of the Rings.

Clearly John and Sherlock were on borrowed time, and they were wasting John's adrenaline high. Time to move things right along.

Damn, Sherlock 'sexy-pouty-lips' Holmes had his mouth open. Here it comes, thought John. More yelling and wasting precious time! So, once again, John had no choice, and Sherlock had no warning.

The army doctor launched himself onto the field of battle. He climbed into Sherlock's lap and fixed his lips over the outraged (and pouty) lips of the World's Sexiest Consulting Detective. John's fiery lips caressed and cajoled. He drew the pouty lip in and sucked it tenderly.

John's hand twined itself in the gorgeous dark locks, dragging his lover close. The soldier's other hand held Sherlock's jaw; John's fingers ran over the razor-sharp cheekbones. Oh God, there was actually a rough stubble on the man's cheeks. Oh God, that stubble was strangely arousing. God, oh God. Sherlock.

Now that John had started, it wasn't enough. Dear God, not nearly enough. His heated tongue begged for admittance into Sherlock's mouth. If John was going to die soon, he damn well ought to have had enough kissing first.

The detective's lips thawed out under the unexpected onslaught. His mind stumbled. This was _new_. Outside of few chaste kisses and gentle caresses, John had never really initiated physical contact and certainly never in public.

But now John was taking possession of his lover with a vengeance. This was something _new_. Sherlock surrendered his mouth to the heated attack. John's tongue pushed in, not soft and sweet, but hot like a tongue of lava quenching itself in the ocean. The kiss left Sherlock tingling and gasping for air and wanting more, much more. He grasped his fevered lover's face tightly, holding him in place.

John heard a tiny voice calling out from the turret of his mind fortress. It said something about **Not Appropriate at This Time**. Damn. It was that stupid, boring conscience interrupting again. Bloody prig was starting to sound a lot like Mycroft. John reluctantly pulled back and retreated into his corner of the back seat.

John surveyed his lovely opponent; was he be pissed off? Hell no! The World's Sexiest Consulting Detective's mouth was a perfect O, the lips just a bit swollen. He also wasn't yelling at John anymore. John deduced that his preëmptive strike was a tactical success. Yes, mission accomplished, thought John with a mental fist pump. File that in the old Mind Fortress, huzzah!

The car buzzed along the highway at over 80 mph. Ahsan snickered in the front seat and the detective studied his newest specimen, Captain John Watson.

Meanwhile, John's smile slowly faded. John still felt cheated. He and Sherlock could have died. Bloody hell, it looked inevitable now. No way was John going to get out of this in one piece. So he and Sherlock were entitled to some post-combat, adrenaline-spiked, we-could-have-died-but-didn't-but-probably-will-soon so lets celebrate with mind numbing, protracted and possibly forbidden sex before it's too late.

Furrowing his brow, John considered, how to actually arrange for mind-numbing sex with the World's Sexiest Consulting Detective.

Sherlock considered his blogger. Yes, this was a very exciting John Watson. This was obviously the soldier that has been hiding in John all this time. Fascinating.

He looked over at his windblown blogger with his flushed cheeks and swollen lips. His blogger was very aroused and was scrunching his brow in an obvious effort to solve some, probably trivial, problem. Somehow, it was endearing. Stupid sentiment. Sherlock raised his hands to assume his thinking position.

"Well, I'm tired," John staged an obviously fake yawn in his gambit to get to a motel. "Busy night what with rattlesnakes and the sneak attack….We should stop for the night. We should stop for the night _at a motel_," John tried, and failed, to look like an innocent little hedgehog. "To rest… for the night…at a motel," added John. It sounded lame even to John's ears. He blushed and tried to regroup.

Sherlock was amused by John's clumsy attempt at deception. That pseudo-sly look was positively wonderful. Sherlock internally chortled inside his Mind Palace so much new John to uncover and evaluate.

Still, the first order of business was to protect his blogger. As the detective stifled his smile, he smoothed his sleeves and the front of his jacket. He was the personification of calm and superior. He twisted his head side to side and cleared his throat. "Actually, the first order of business is to get rid of this car and find new transportation. Obviously, Dimitri's people will be searching for this car."

"Dimitri's people? How do you know it was Dimitri?" asked John. His face scrunched up yet again, as he tried to think this through.

"Dear God, John, did you not realize that it was Dimitri's gang? Didn't you even recognize the big Russian from New York?' asked the detective.

"I did. I saw the bloody Russian Mafia giant," said Ahsan. "I think maybe he was one of the tangos hit by John Watson, bam! Bloody mafia giant down. Whooah-hoe!"

John tried to remember faces but they were all a blur, except the man who had tried to strangle Sherlock. That man had been marked for a headshot by John, but luckily for him, he had dropped the detective just in time. John continued to look blank despite the deep crease between his eyes, indicating deep thought (for an ordinary mind).

"You didn't even observe the enemy, John. Honestly, Doctor, what do you bother thinking about all the time?"asked Sherlock.

John blinked. What do I think about all the time? Well, I think about pushing Sherlock up against the wall and…Um.

"Um," said John. He stuck his head out of the window, ostensibly to check for pursuit. Big surprise, there was no one behind them.

John closed his eyes, barely able to breath as the torrents of wind sucked the air past his face. The rush of air scrubbed his brain clean of thought. His mind slowly stopped revolving around battles and the inevitable defeat and sex and Sherlock and most especially sex with Sherlock. Oh Christ. Stop thinking, Captain Watson. John let the wind blow past and numb his over-heated mind.

Suddenly, long, cool hands rested on John's hips, re-igniting his desire. Oh bloody hell, here we go again.

Sherlock had stared at his blogger hanging out of the window again. How many times in one day do I have to worry about losing John?

"John, get in the car!" barked the detective. Clearly, John had lost what little mind he had.

Sherlock dragged his blogger back into the car, yet again. "John, can you please try to stay focused? Obviously the gang will not report us to the police but the gas station attendant will. The local police will identify our car through the use of the security cameras…"

John chewed the inside of his cheek and rubbed his hips that still burned from the madman's touch. What the heck was Sherlock nattering on about now? Why was it so hard to think now? Security camera? What security camera? Christ, think, Captain Watson. Engage your brain for fuck's sake, thought John.

Security camera. Security tape! Yes, I have it. "I have it," said Sherlock's deranged blogger, making no sense at all.

Sherlock grabbed each side of John's face and stared in his still dilated eyes, their noses were only inches apart. "John. Focus. What do you have?"

"The security tape, Sherlock. See, here it is," John held up the cassette. "The security tape from the gas station, I got it before I made the clerk take cover and call for help. Oh God, I hope the little guy made it," muttered John. With something new to worry about, he began to chew his knuckle.

"Brilliant! John this is brilliant! Outstanding. You have outdone yourself, Dr. Watson," Sherlock tossed the VCR tape up and down in his hands. "Pity they didn't use DVR, now I need to get a VCR player. Still, it's very well done, John."

John felt his trademark blush flooding his face after receiving the uncharacteristic praise from the consulting detective. At least no one can see me blushing in the dark, John consoled himself.

"Stop blushing, John," said the detective, waving his hand dismissively. "Well this buys us some time. I shall look forward to reviewing the tape and cross-referencing the assailants with the databases of the CIA, FBI and Interpol at the very least. And I think now, if we switch cars, we can avoid the authorities and Dmitri, at least for the short-term."

"I know," said John, who stubbornly stuck to his plan. "We'll ditch the car, hide at a motel and then you can steal another car. I bet you know how to steal cars, Sherlock. It's a good plan," said John, with narrowed calculating eyes.

Yeah, a good plan, thought John. Get to a motel. Throw Sherlock against the wall, kiss the hell out of him. Bring him to his knees. No, I'll get on my knees. Yeah, then I can rip off his pants and…

Bloody hell, he's looking at me _that way._ He's deducing me. Wait, wait Sherlock's probably reading my mind. He'll know that I just want to stop for mind-numbing sex. He won't want that. It's too stupid and ordinary. I need to use logic. Yeah, logic.

"Yeah, um, Ahsan needs to rest. Don't you need to rest, Ahsan?" he asked the driver.

"Oh yes, John Watson. I shall surely need to rest now," Ahsan readily agreed with his hero.

"See, he needs to rest. We all need to rest," continued John with another fake yawn.

"Yes," said the detective.

Yes? Did Sherlock just say yes, wondered John?

"Yes," continued Sherlock, apparently reading his blogger's mind. "It's not a bad plan, John. Although we probably won't need to resort to auto theft. Let me check the map on my phone," murmured Sherlock, with a hint of an upturned lip.

He studied the map for nearby cities with hotels where they could safely retire for the day.

His eyes tilted up and to the side to study his blogger who stared back at Sherlock and chewed his knuckles. Sherlock absently swatted at John's hand to stop the gnawing; it was a bad habit.

John switched back to biting his lip and stared up at Sherlock with hungry eyes. John had apparently metamorphosed into some kind of wolf, an exciting, new and sensual wolf, thought the detective. The righteous soldier was so desperate that he actually suggested stealing a car. Really, John?

This was not an opportunity to be missed. Best to find a motel before John changed back into a hedgehog. Not that the hedgehog wasn't wonderful. But this John was _new_. He certainly warranted a full examination and a set of experiments, preferably experiments with no clothes on…

**A/N** Sorry for the delayed update. Hopefully, the next couple of chapters will be uploaded weekly.

Thank you for all the reviews including (but not limited to) SamuelE8688, InuChimera7410, Cremains, power0girl, olliluck, Wicked Winter. Rose O'Sharon and ruvy91 (who recommended I Want to Know What Love Is by Foreigner for background music for chapter 16-in honor of our favorite consulting detective of course!) The reviews and comments help me to improve and are so motivating too!

Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to Sherlock or Watson. This fiction is intended purely as light entertainment for like-minded Johnlock shippers and myself.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N** Fluff and Smut alert. Rated M for a reason. John recommends listening to the music Rachid Taha during this chapter. I did.

**Chapter 19**

They abandoned their rental car in the basement of a parking garage. Sherlock then led Ahsan and John several blocks to the best hotel in Midland, Texas.

"I don't see why we couldn't just stay at a little motel. Why do you have to waste money on a big, fancy hotel, Sherlock," complained John, who was carrying his and Sherlock's luggage plus his emergency backpack. He was hot, exhausted and frustrated. On top of everything else, John didn't like his new hat anymore; it looked stupid.

"As long as I have Mycroft's card, we shall indulge ourselves. I spent enough time in crap motels over the last few years. I see no need to cater to your lower middle class roots," replied the snarky detective.

The day was going poorly. As time had passed and the adrenaline faded, John had returned to his usual, quiet and humble self. So much for evaluating and experimenting on the new and oh so very intriguing John. Disappointment flared through Sherlock, making him even more caustic than usual.

John's nostrils flared, and he sighed deeply. However he decided not to start another fight with Sherlock. John was really much too tired after two days with no sleep, breaking up and reuniting with Sherlock, a running battle (a small pulse of adrenaline jolted John, as he recalled the battle) and now he was over loaded carrying his duffel, Sherlock's garment bag, Sherlock's suitcase, his backpack and a sack of recently purchased toiletries and undergarments. I'm nothing but a bloody pack mule, thought John, trudging behind the swanning detective.

Once in the hotel, Sherlock checked in at the front desk, paying extra for the early check in. The detective was happy to spend Mycroft's money yet insisted on the cost saving measure of sharing a room with John.

John did not point out this obvious hypocrisy. After all, it fit right in with his plans for spending some quality time with the consulting detective.

In the last few hours, John had stopped staring at the detective as if he was dessert. However, the army doctor's main objective of mind-numbing sex was front and center in the courtyard of his Mind Fortress. Whatever disappointments or heartbreak lay ahead, John was determined to enjoy his just desserts. Pun intended, thought John with a smirk.

Ahsan had been sent on to his own luxurious room with instructions to stay inside and rest and order room service as needed. The young man departed gratefully.

Ahsan was exhausted. He had had more than enough excitement over the last twenty-four hours. The crowning event was when John Watson gave Ahsan one of his handguns and began teaching Ahsan how to shoot. They had stopped to practice shooting at dawn in the deserted rolling plains of West Texas.

John Watson had pulled his Sig Sauer and a silencer from his luggage and set up a series of empty coffee cups for Ahsan to practice on. Sherlock Holmes had sighed and rolled his eyes, but Ahsan was over the moon.

The soldier had said that Ahsan was a natural at shooting and gave the young man the Sig Sauer to keep, although John kept the repressor. Most of the rest of the drive sped by for Ahsan as John leaned into the front seat, giving instructions on the safe handling and the proper care of firearms. Sherlock Holmes had ignored John Watson's smiles and complained about the waste of time.

Sherlock Holmes was given his turn as a driver to stop his whinging, and the last two hours of the trip had been nerve-racking. The detective drove aggressively, but then his attention would suddenly be diverted, usually at the worst possible times.

Anyway, Ahsan was tired of being the third wheel. Yes, all in all, Ahsan was glad to retire to his room for rest and several hours of pay-for-view entertainment.

Sherlock disconsolately stalked down the hall. He had missed his window of opportunity. John no longer seemed interested in passion and sex. After the fight, the soldier had been incandescent. John had seemed inflamed with love and desire, and it had all been for Sherlock Holmes. And it was all for naught. Clearly, Sherlock should have settled for the first available motel, but no he had insisted on pushing through to this city and a nice hotel. Sherlock was angry with himself for wasting his valuable opportunity. Idiot.

Now, the army soldier was clearly worn out. John would undoubtedly insist on eating (dull), watching a few minutes of crap telly (duller), and judging from the way he dragged his feet, he would certainly insist on sleeping (dullest).Sherlock was angry at John for being so human. Stupid John.

The consulting detective slid the key card into the slot and opened the door, not even bothering to hold the door for his blogger. John had to kick the door back open before it slid shut behind the stroppy detective. He shoved awkwardly past Sherlock with their very heavy luggage.

John dropped all the luggage in a heap in the middle of the room, and then marched over to shut the curtains. Sherlock huffed in the darkened room, here it comes; thought the detective; obviously John was preparing to go to sleep (DULL, DULL, DULL).

The consulting detective picked up the expensive garment bag that his inconsiderate blogger had dropped in a heap, and he carefully hung in on the rack. John understood nothing about the proper care of suits and finely tailored clothes.

Sherlock turned around to find the short blond soldier standing just inches behind him.

John had already kicked off his shoes and socks. He stared up at his detective from under his determined brows. His dark blue irises were nearly swallowed up by his blown pupils. He lips parted slightly, as he smiled.

Oh? Oh. Perhaps the new and improved John was _not_ gone after all. (Not dull). Sherlock's lips tilted up in a half-smile at John's inner soldier, who gazed up into his own eyes.

"Sherlock," exhaled the compact warrior. He tilted his head up and reached out to take a hold of Sherlock's narrow hips. John's hands felt hot through to Sherlock even through his clothing. John slowly backed the taller detective into the door.

"Sherlock, I think I'm going to kiss you now," said John softly.

The smaller man leaned forward, pressing Sherlock up against the door. John stood on his toes, pulling the tall man's head down into a rough kiss, sliding his chapped lips over Sherlock's soft pink lips. He pulled that soft lower lip into his mouth and bit down.

That hurt, thought the detective, but he couldn't hold back a moan. Sherlock fought back; he thrust his tongue forcefully into John's mouth. John's mouth had never felt this hot or tasted so intoxicating to the detective. He eased his hands slowly down over John's sides, feeling ribs and muscles slide beneath his fingertips. His hands stopped at John's soft waist; he squeezed slowly. Sherlock hauled his lover closer, bending further to deepen their kiss.

Sherlock's rushing thoughts slowed, swirling dreamily around the center of Sherlock's universe. All his genius and all his senses focused on John Watson.

The soldier's arms were raised up around the tall man's neck to keep the detective's mouth within reach. But it was not enough, thought the doctor. He wanted more. Needed more.

John climbed on top of Sherlock's feet and drew one leg around the detective's legs, trying to reach up to the tall detective. Sherlock obliged, he gripped John's tightly muscled buttocks and lifted John up off the floor in a tight embrace. John threw his legs around his lover. His mouth hungrily seeking pink lips and tongue.

The doctor ground against Sherlock's hips and groaned loudly into Sherlock's mouth. John licked and nibbled Sherlock's sexy-pouty lips to his satisfaction; then he moved onto the severely angled cheekbones.

Sherlock's rough, unshaved cheeks scratched John's face and lips, and it was intoxicating. Some part of John was still astonished to find himself loving another man. He was kissing a man with five-o-clock shadow. And it was the biggest turn on in the world. Oh God.

5 'o clock shadow at 1100 hours. Wait, that's funny. John started to giggle into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock stopped, frozen. Was John laughing at him? He glared down at the blond with his head tilted to one side.

John instantly read the detectives's growing sense of offence. "Oh, no, no. It just, you have razor stubble. On your cheeks," gasped John. He kept his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock's neck and rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's rough stubble. "I've never seen you with stubble. It's, it's fantastic. You're a man!"

"Brilliant observation, John. Did you only now just realize this?" asked Sherlock perplexed by his blogger. He gazed down with a small smile forming; John's giggles were quite infectious.

"No, no I just suddenly realized, I mean I knew. But I never thought I'd love another man; all those years and I never really gave it a thought until I met you. And you're a man with stubble. And you have muscles. God you're strong enough to hold me. It's bloody amazing. You really are a man, and I can't explain it." John gasped. "I just love you, and I love your body. Oh God, you have 5 o'clock shadow at 1100 hours, I love that, it's so bloody sexy," John collapsed burying his face into Sherlock's neck as high-pitched giggles escaped. "5 o'clock shadow at 1100 hours. Get it? It's funny. And sexy!"

John's finally returned to ravage those lips again, between his giggles. Sherlock, still holding back a grin, ran his lips across John's still quivering lips. Then he nibbled and sucked at John's lips. He hadn't realized that he could kiss and embrace and smile at the same time. John could do all that and giggle at the same time. Somehow John managed to do all that and still be sexy. John was amazing.

John released Sherlock's mouth to gasp for air when the room began to spin.

Sherlock chuckled, low and perilous, "Breathe, John. It's elementary; you need to breathe." Sherlock supported their weight by leaning against the door, determined not to let down his amorous boyfriend

That deep voice set off tremors inside John. His giggles vanished under Sherlock's dark, hungry gaze. He clung harder to the muscled chest of his lover. Heat rushed through John; he needed more.

One hand released its tight grip from around the detective's neck; he began to unbutton Sherlock's blue-green shirt. Yes, brilliant idea, decided John, less clothes and more Sherlock. Yes, bite, suck and taste this newly exposed expanse of Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock arched his back to drive himself up against the soldier. His arms finally loosed their hold, and John slowly slid back to the floor, which was fine. Now John could rip the damn shirt off, exposing all of that alabaster chest, with it's finely chiseled muscles. God, yes, Sherlock's nipples stood erect and waited for John. Yes!

John sucked and bit the sensitive nipples gently. The taller man swayed against him and moaned his name, a low rumble that nearly undid the determined warrior.

He reached down to undo Sherlock's belt and unzip the fly. He tugged the trousers and pants down in one go letting them pool at Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock gave a deep groan when his trapped erection was freed; he involuntarily thrust forward seeking friction.

Now, John would have all of Sherlock. John dropped to his knees and began to caress and kiss the inside of Sherlock's thighs. He forced the taller man up against the wall, gripping his slim hips with his vice-like hands. His mouth slowly climbed up the soft skin of the detective's thighs, until he reached Sherlock's balls. He licked and sucked on them in turn. Sherlock's knees began to give way. "John, bed," he moaned.

No, no, no, not yet, screamed the wild, wall-sex obsessed inner John. "No, just lean on me…just…Not yet," John half-demanded and half-begged. He looked up with swollen red lips, his fiery face flushed and his eyes dark with lust. Sherlock could deny John nothing. He braced himself against the door and leaned his arms on John's broad shoulders, giving himself up to the soldier at his feet.

John grinned lasciviously and began lick the base of Sherlock's erection. He kissed and breathed on it and moaned into it. The detective groaned in response.

Oh, yes. Sherlock liked the moaning. Good, because John had to moan. He worked up the endless, burning red brand until he reached the head, which had already freed itself from its foreskin. John moaned Sherlock's name, the vibrations adding to the fire engulfing Sherlock's member.

John ran his tongue around the groove then over the top and around and around, then finally into the slit. He began to take in the huge member, working his tongue around it. Sherlock tried to keep himself from thrusting into John's mouth, while John used his hand and mouth in unison.

"John, stop. I can't…you have to stop… or I'm going to cum," gasped the detective leaning heavily on John.

John pulled off and buried his face in Sherlock's thigh with its light dusting of dark hair. John breathed in and out steadying himself with the musky scent of Sherlock Holmes. His calloused hands ran up and down his handsome lover's skin, soothing and calming him. The taller man rested against the hard door, one hand leaning on John's shoulder and the other running through his short, blond hair.

When John finally looked up, his eyes blazed like the night sky. They locked on the glacially pale eyes of his lover. "Sherlock, I need…you," he licked his chapped lips. "I want you…in me."

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty. Maybe there were miracles, because John Watson truly wanted tightened his hold on his blogger's shoulders, while John tugged Sherlock's trousers and pants off.

Sherlock pulled John up and held him, as John stumbled into the consulting detective's arms. The soldier raised his lips to kiss the man, still slumped against the door. Sherlock locked his lips hungrily onto those of his lover. Then, entangled in a tight embrace, they backed over to the bed. John turned and sat the taller man on the edge of the bed and began to unbuckle his own belt.

Sherlock watched as John stripped slowly for him. First the belt came off. Then John pulled the lube and condoms out from his pocket, placing them on the nightstand. John looked up at Sherlock, finally meeting his eyes.

John blushed as he loosened his tight jeans, running his hands around the waistband teasing. It seemed impossible, but Sherlock's eyes darkened further. He watched Sherlock lick his own pink, swollen lips. His panting breath echoed the harsh breath of his lover. He ran his fingers under his own waistband until he could stand it no more. He very slowly lowered his jeans. Finally, his erection was partly freed, tenting his black pants.

Sherlock could no longer sit passively. His long arms reached out, grasping John's black tee-shirt and pulling it roughly off. He held his doctor at arm's length for a minute devouring John's compact frame with his eyes. The detective's eyes roamed and memorized the muscled chest, the rough maelström of his shoulder scar, the softer abdomen, the soft, blond hair of his chest flowing down into his shorts.

Sherlock's breathing was harsh and rapid; his hands slid down John's sides, sliding under his black pants. John's head dropped back. He reveled in the blazing touch of those long, cool, tapered fingers playing a symphony on his feverish skin. Those hands slipped down behind John's knees then began their slow ascent.

John stepped closer, standing between Sherlock's long, white legs, dusted with black hair. "Sherl, I …I want you to... fuck me. Sherl." Blushing, the soldier stood his ground, his hands running entreaties over Sherlock's firm arms.

Sherlock grabbed the lube and poured it on his fingers. He entered his lover with one finger. John tensed only briefly; he twisted uncomfortably then slowly started rock. "More, please, please more," he begged; his eyes opened and looked directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh God, Sherlock," moaned John when a second finger entered him. "Oh God, more." He twisted down on the fingers, gasping at the burn, gasping with desire

Sherlock's eyes fluttered as John pleaded and moaned. His pulse thundered with desire when John's broken voice called his name. It was overwhelming how John trusted and gave himself to his lover.

Sherlock began to stretch him open; his fingers burning from the tight heat inside his John. Sherlock dragged his fingers over John's prostate teasingly, John nearly fell. Then Sherlock massaged the gland more firmly, and John began writhe and buck. His face flushed red and his eyes squeezed shut, waves of pleasure nearly carried John away, as Sherlock's legs squeezed him tightly.

Only his grip on the pale, broad shoulders in front of him kept him upright. John ached with his need, the precum dripping onto Sherlock. Now. Now.

"Now Sherl… Now!" growled John harshly; his voice was low and insistent and unrecognizable.

John opened his eyes and stared at the detective's huge erection; he slowly stroked it with the lube. John pulled free of Sherlock's fingers and climbed onto the detective's lap. Sherlock watched mesmerized.

The tall man leaned forward to kiss his lover deeply; then he began to kiss and suckle his bloggers neck. He held John's hips to support the man kneeling astride him. He inhaled deeply, savoring John's smell. He breathed in and out slowly, to keep from himself from losing control as John impaled himself onto Sherlock's cock. John grimaced and whimpered softly, Sherlock ravaged his blogger's mouth with kisses and bites, distracting his handsome blond until the discomfort eased.

Other than his lips, questing and cataloguing John's mouth, Sherlock held still. He held John's hips in a bruising grip, waiting until John relaxed and began to twist and squirm. John rocked tentatively. Sherlock slowly, oh so slowly, began to lower John down and thrust himself up into his lover. He watched as his engorged dick disappeared into John. Sherlock lifted his head, now watching John's face, lost in ecstasy.

"God, Sherlock…God, you are..ungh…Oh God," muttered John.

John began to slide up and down and rock atop his lover. Thrusting deeper, Sherlock speared John's prostate, driving him close to the edge. John tried not to cry out and bit his fist to keep from screaming, as his hips rocked and gyrated on top of Sherlock. The detective released his grip on Johns hip and tore John's arm away from his mouth.

"No, no, John, I need to hear… every sound you make," groaned Sherlock. He held John's arm up next to his head.

John cried out again, his erection rubbed against Sherlock's tight abdomen but it wasn't enough. He tried to drop his hand to stimulate himself but couldn't loosen his grip on Sherlock's shoulder, his other hand was held back by Sherlock. He keened in the back of his throat. "I can't…Sherl, I need, I can't" cried John frantically.

Sherlock thrust faster and harder. He let go of John's arm, and grasped his partner's cock, stroking him and rubbing the precum over the head. Sherlock moaned, deep and low, as the heat pooled in his abdomen and built up for the imminent explosion. "I…ahh…God. John, cum. Cum for me… God …I'm, oh I'm close, so… , John, close…. John!"

"Sherrrll!" cried John, who climaxed over his lover's hand. Sherlock pumped John, as he thrust ruthlessly into the ecstatic soldier. Sherlock slid his hands up to support his half-conscious lover. He exploded into John. He thrust repeatedly to finish his release. Sherlock slowly fell backwards onto the bed bringing his John down on top of his chest.

They lay, spent, in the dim curtained room. With small groans, John wriggled off of Sherlock, and then tried to roll off the detective's chest.

Sherlock's arms tightened. "No! Stay. Stay there, John. I want you on top of me. I want you safe in my arms." He shifted himself until he lay properly on the bed then pulled and tugged John until his blogger was settled properly on top of him.

They lay panting; Sherlock's long, tapered fingers slowly traced the skin of John's back. He found the huge scar above John's scapula and smaller scars that Sherlock had not yet evaluated. He pressed harder identifying muscles and underlying bone.

John sighed softly in happiness as he finally came down from his euphoria; John's hand twined itself in Sherlock's damp, wild curls.

After an eternity of enjoying this peace and happiness, John remembered a terrible lapse. He pushed up on his firm forearms.

"Oh my God, Sherl, I…I'm sorry. I forgot the … the condoms. I should have…" John's face turned pale and scrunched up with worry. Needless worry, thought Sherlock.

"John, don't be an idiot. You are worried needlessly. I have my clean, negative tests on file anytime you need to look at them. Of course, I've seen yours too. We are both quite safe, mon hèrisson," smiled Sherlock. "I have realized how important that would be for you, John. So condoms really are not necessary, because we are clean and exclusive now. We _are _going to be exclusive?" he asked, still insecure.

"Um, right. Clean," John pursed his lips considering and agreeing with the detective.

"And of course, I am exclusively yours, Sherl. Always," John's face relaxed, and he nuzzled into the crook of Sherlock's neck. He muttered nonsense that just might have been, "I love you's" into Sherlock's neck and shoulder until they both collapsed into dreamless sleep.

**A/N** Yeah, like I said, fluff and smut. (Now, how many of you tried the music of Rachid Taha? I think he's brilliant.)

To ruvy91-I hope that I got the French (all two words) right this time. BTW I have also fixed my 'lapsed' Latin from the previous chapter thanks to the advice of I'm Nova and Chandler Bourdette.

Thank you to the all my reviewers [see above ;D] and also Quiet Time (I'm sure plan B will have to be used again someday), Wicked Winter(Who says snake can't be healthy if it is properly stir fried), Rose O'Sharon(I like your name), InuChimera7410 and foxeeflame(Just imagine a BAMF hedgehog?),SamuelIE8688(Should this chapter have been titled, Finally the Appropriate Time?)and power0girl(You always encourage me; you're brilliant.) THANK YOU for taking the time to review, comment and otherwise let me know that someone is out there reading my outlandish fic-you are all extraordinary!

Thank you to everyone reading this fic and for those who follow and favorite this fic. You are the best!

There will probably be one more chapter in this fic. John and Sherlock will then continue their seemingly never-ending adventures in a sequel, which has been started but needs rewriting already due to interference from Mycroft (who is tired of being ignored-after all, he _is_ the British Government).

**Disclaimer**-I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. I hope Sir ACD, who owned these rights, isn't rolling over in his grave at my nonsensical fic. Oops, I just ignored Mycroft again!


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N **OK, I know that this was supposed to be the last chapter. However, it got too long, and my Internet connection doesn't like to upload long chapters. So now this is the penultimate chapter. Besides, I've wanted to use that word for the longest time. (The word, _penultimate_, not the word _chapter_ or _this_ or _so_ because that would be silly.) ;P

**Chapter 20**

Sherlock slept for almost five hours. Five hours wasted on sleep. Obviously, the afternoon's sexual intercourse with John had exhausted him. Another example of how personal relationships can interfere with the work, thought the detective with disgust. He glared down at his sleeping partner, aka The Distraction.

The Distraction had rolled off Sherlock's chest and lay nestled against Sherlock's side with his arm around the detective's waist. Sherlock's disgust faded a bit. The Distraction looked peculiarly attractive for some reason.

Sherlock admitted that John was almost as important as the work. Or perhaps John was as important as the work. He brushed his hand through the blond's hair, which was matted. John was sweaty and sticky; he should be repellant. Instead, Sherlock found him beautiful. John looked younger when he slept, with the worry lines faded. Sherlock smiled at The Distraction. Stupid sentiment.

Upon further reflection, Sherlock decided that coitus with John produced a rush comparable to cocaine, without the crash. After a rest period, it was actually somewhat invigorating. Sherlock was now awake and ready to conduct his research. Perhaps coitus, while a short-term distraction, improved his long-term mental acuity. Perhaps that hypothesis could be tested at a later date. Surely, John would not object to that sort of experiment.

Sherlock shifted to a sitting position, pushing The Distraction aside. John whimpered in his sleep, and Sherlock pulled him back in close, unable to tolerate the thought of making John unhappy. God, I'm a slave to sentiment, thought the detective. Nevertheless, Sherlock caressed John's face and scalp, soothing his lover back to sleep. John sighed and buried his face into Sherlock's bony hip. Sherlock found that the motions were surprisingly soothing for him as well as his blogger. Curious.

The World's Only Consulting Detective allowed his fingers to run through John's hair, while his mind reviewed the research that he planned to conduct this evening. Sherlock needed to track down Victor Trevor or at least determine his possible connection with Dimitri. Victor could still be a threat.

Besides, it was likely that Victor had turned in Sherlock's, and more importantly, John's whereabouts to Dimitri. If this was indeed the case, Sherlock would eventually need to arrange retribution. No one threatened his blogger.

Sherlock also needed information on Dimitri's factions in Texas and his connections to local gangs and the various drug cartels operating in the state. He should also determine whether the CIA still presented any danger for John. While his phone might suffice for small research tasks, access to a computer would greatly facilitate matters.

He should get up, shower, change his clothes and go out to obtain a laptop. Of course, when John woke up alone, he would be angry and hurt. He would eventually yell at Sherlock or, worse, look sad and disappointed. He might even do something stupid, such as go out to look for Sherlock, and get himself kidnapped again. Too risky.

Sherlock sighed; this relationship thing was very inconvenient at times. Instead of doing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, the detective had to consider John's safety, his needs and his nearly inexplicable feelings. Nonetheless, John was absolutely necessary to Sherlock, that was a given. In order to keep John, some compromises were needed.

Sherlock decided that since he was a genius, he could probably come up with a solution that did not thoroughly upset John yet allowed the detective to carry on with his research. John mumbled in his sleep. Oh God, not another nightmare.

Sherlock hated the nightmares. Especially the ones when John relived Sherlock's suicide. It was torment to hear his strong soldier reduced to pained whimpers from his dreams of Sherlock's supposed death. It was torture to listen to John cry out for Sherlock and know that this had gone on for years with no comfort or support for John.

Sherlock pulled the sleeping man onto his lap. The tall man sighed with relief, when John seemed to settle without further agitation. Leaving John alone in the hotel seemed an even worse idea now.

After some consideration, the consulting detective finally phoned the concierge who graciously, and for a substantial gratuity, agreed to obtain a suitable laptop computer for 'Mr. Sigerson in room 542'.

After contemplating the pros and cons of interpersonal relationships again (mostly cons, except for his relationship with a certain army doctor), the detective decided it was time to get to work.

Sherlock ruthlessly chased all of his sentiments and thoughts about relationships into John's Wing of his Mind Palace. The detective finally got up out of the bed. He turned to cover up the sleeping blond (more stupid sentiment) and went to take his shower.

* * *

John woke up, a couple of hours later, to find his mad lover typing away on a new computer, (Where the hell did that come from?), and using both John's and his own mobile phones for additional inputs.

Sitting up, John scrubbed his face with one hand, "Hey," he began.

"Busy," intoned the detective, not looking up from the computer screen. Sherlock wore silk pajama bottoms and a blue silk dressing gown, like a Mughal prince.

Great, the return of Mr. Stroppy, thought John, glaring at the pale-faced man illuminated by the screen. Unfortunately, John's shoulder pain had made a return visit too. Probably hurt it carrying all that luggage, he told himself. Although, bearing Sherlock's weight during the wall-sex might possibly have had something to do with his sore shoulder. Well, of course, wall-sex was worth a little shoulder pain.

But did today's sex really qualify as wall-sex?

John's forehead creased as he tried to solve this conundrum. It had technically been a wall-blowjob, and a blowjob certainly qualified as sex in John's book. _But_ they finished the round on the bed and not at the wall. So it _didn't_ qualify as wall sex.

"Bloody Hell!" muttered John, entering his conclusions into his Adults Only room of John's Mind Fortress. An Adults Only room was really rather silly, he thought. I'm the only one who goes into John's Mind Fortress, and I'm an adult, so why have an Adults Only room?

Still, maybe it was a reasonable precaution, what with that mind reading detective over there. Maybe it was more evidence of John Watson's mental instability. Yeah, I'm just a nutter, John decided, pursing his lips.

John got out of bed stiffly. Every muscle was sore, thanks to his mad dash from the attackers last night followed by the mind-numbing sex. And yes, it definitely qualified as mind-numbing sex. In fact, John's mind was still pretty numb, which perhaps explained his pointless monologues about wall-sex and Mind Fortresses.

The mind-numbing sex also explained his very tender posterior, which was ,of course, another very necessary sacrifice, thought John with a deep sigh.

John tried not to hobble, as he walked over to the sink to get a drink of water. The detective didn't even notice him. I'd sure as hell notice him, if he was walking around in his altogether, thought the very naked army doctor. Arrogant consulting git.

God, I gave him everything. I gave him a wall-blowjob. Yes only a partial wall-blowjob, qualified John's numb mind, but he didn't seem to mind the change of venue. And then I rode him like a horse, and I don't even get so much as a hello or a thank you. Nope. No thank you, no compliments, no wine, and no flowers.

Bloody hell, he probably won't even call me in the morning. See, he's already ignoring me. I'm definitely not getting a phone call in the morning. John began to chew the inside of his cheek in consternation.

Jeeze, I maybe I did it wrong? It's not like I have any man on man experience. Maybe I should have finished the blowjob at the wall? Maybe I should have retreated to the bed sooner or... God I don't know!

I should have researched it. Maybe Glamour Magazine has an article, 'Mind Bowing Sex for Best Mates?' No, no, no! Glamour is a women's magazine. But I bet they have an article on how to get the guy to call back in the morning or even send flowers.

Dammit, that's my phone. I need it to look up how to get the guy to call you back the morning after.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the genius at work, John reached for his phone.

"No! Busy!" snapped the detective again. Snatching John's phone out of reach.

"Busy!" mimicked John using a high-pitched schoolyard-voice, as a frown re-furrowed his brow. Well that clinches it, no phone call in the morning for me and no bloody flowers either. Right.

"Well, I'm a guy too, and don't expect any flowers from me either," John hissed.

Sherlock made no further response. John, wearing no more than what God gave him at birth, marched stiffly but proudly across the hotel room and into the bathroom, to take his shower.

* * *

Sherlock had tracked John's every move since he began to awaken. Yes, John was The Distraction, but perhaps he could be considered a diversion, a tolerable, necessary diversion.

He noted John's obviously pained gait and resolved to examine John's shoulder later. The detective allowed himself a smirk as he considered another reason for John's careful gait. No doubt John's anal region was tender from their sexual intercourse.

Yes, he had completely satisfied his blogger earlier; John's face and body tone clearly spoke of total satiation. None of John's stupid, insipid girlfriends had ever left John looking so satisfied. They never pleasured John the way Sherlock could. The detective allowed himself a very smug grin.

Sherlock was quite enthralled with John's nudity tonight. This was another wonderful new development. John had always tried to hide his body from the detective, actually from everyone. But tonight he had walked around the room, completely comfortable with his nudity. Sherlock was thrilled that John finally trusted him, and he had enjoyed the view immensely. Indeed he was half-hard, just from looking at his partner.

However, he was a bit confused by John's final threat. Did John expect flowers from Sherlock? Was Sherlock likely to receive flowers from John, and to what purpose? Why?

This relationship thing was distracting him from his research again! Sherlock sighed heavily. He had to put all his irrelevant and frankly prurient thoughts concerning John into John's wing. He would deal with them later.

But first, he would call the concierge and order some food and beer for John. Sherlock had clearly taken very good care of his blogger that afternoon; he would continue caring for his doctor by ensuring that he was well fed. As an after thought, he ordered three blood-red roses too, just to be on the safe side. Yes, Sherlock vaguely remembered hearing something about lovers and flowers. If it was an expected part of relationships, then Sherlock had better just get the flowers for John.

_Now_ maybe he could concentrate on his research. At least he had finally broken into the TSA computers and could possibly begin to track the travels of Victor, Dimitri and some of his known gang members.

* * *

John muttered to himself as the hot shower streamed over him. Guess the World's only Consulting Detective is on a case. So much for the shower sex I wanted. It's a good thing I got the in wall-sex, I mean partial wall-blowjob, before he cut me off. Ouch, that's painful imagery thought the doctor, cringing involuntarily.

He slowly relaxed and let the water wash away his soreness and petty irritation with the World's Sexiest Consulting Detective. He smirked, knowing that that sobriquet would seriously annoy said detective.

Anyway, John reassured himself, it was perfectly _normal_ for Sherlock to be engrossed in his work. It was _normal_ for him to be a bit of a dick. John actually liked Sherlock because of those qualities, which was more proof that John was obviously a nutter.

Well if Sherlock could put up with John's adrenaline addiction and his tendency to nag, then John could put up with Sherlock's devotion to the Work. Just so long as John got the detective's attention in between cases, the army doctor thought possessively.

John eventually had to leave the shower when he noticed that his skin was getting very red and had prune-like wrinkles from the water.

The hot shower, and a couple of ibuprofen, had helped John's aches and pains a lot, and John came out of the bathroom feeling much better. Since it was nearly midnight and he had nowhere to go, John wore only his black boxers and a new, unbuttoned purple shirt that he had stolen from Mr. Stroppy. Hell, the World's Sexiest Consulting Detective probably won't even notice the shirt.

"So, Sherlock," said John.

"Obviously still busy!" said Sherlock. Without looking up he added, "Food in fridge."

John walked over to the counter that contained a little refrigerator. On top of the counter, there was a vase with three red roses in it, the attached card just read, '**To John**". John blinked. He looked over at the detective, who was hunched over one of the mobile phones.

Having never received flowers, John was at a loss as to what to do. Dammit, he should have sent Sherlock flowers first then he wouldn't be in this awkward position.

John shifted back and forth on his feet, his mouth pursing as he considered his options. If he interrupted the Work, he'd be in big trouble. If he ignored the gesture, he'd probably hurt the man, who was so much more sensitive than anyone realized, anyone but John that is. Cautiously, John padded over and placed a chaste kiss on the wild black curls (obviously something had frustrated the detective, which had resulted in him tearing at his hair again).

Then the army doctor quickly retreated, before he was accused of interrupting the precious Work. A trace of a smile in the corner of those pink lips and a faint blush told John that his gratitude was understood and appreciated.

The flowers, sandwiches and beer had convinced John to forgive the detective's rudeness. The purple love bites sported on the detective's neck also encouraged John to overlook any slights.

Balancing his food and beer with one hand, John turned to the telly. It had been unplugged and turned to face the wall. Apparently, the telly was off-limits. Silently, John turned back around.

"Distracting," said Sherlock, answering John's unvoiced question. "And not telepathy," he added, answering John's next unvoiced question. "Now go away, I'm busy."

With a huff, John went to sit on the dark balcony overlooking the sleeping Texan city. He sat. He quickly stood back up, with a sigh. The hard chair was not comfortable for a man who had just had a certain kind of mind-numbing sex.

I suppose it was worth the sacrifice, he reassured himself again. Maybe I'll just stand up all night; John leaned against the railing and admired the view as he sipped his beer.

The sliding glass door slid open and a long arm, clad in the dark silk dressing grown, shoved a pillow towards John. The door slammed shut again. "Bloody psychic," muttered John.

With the pillow comfortably cushioning his painful posterior, John sprawled out on the plastic chair; he was actually hungry tonight. His first real meal in what, in a couple days?

A miniature doctor burst out from the Mind Fortress clinic; he sternly berated John for bad eating habits and the need for good nutrition. For once, John had to agree with Sherlock, this particular Dr. Watson could be a tad tedious. John shoved the Mini-Doc back into the clinic and firmly locked the door.

The Texas night was lovely. There was almost no breeze and it was very warm. From the fifth floor balcony, John could watch the late night traffic and a few pedestrians. When he got up for a second beer, he waved genially to a group down on the street. The sandwiches were amazingly good too. Was that Gruyère cheese with the ham, he wondered?

Maybe mind-numbing sex just put John in a mellow mood.

Maybe he should suggest that Sherlock design an experiment to test whether really great sex improved John Watson's mood. It would require lots of repeated; mind-numbing sex to replicate the data, but John would gladly make the sacrifice in the name of science.

John got up to get his notebook. "Need any help?" he asked the detective, knowing the answer in advance.

He received a negative sort of grunt, so he helped himself to another beer and surreptitiously grabbed his flowers too. John settled back down on the balcony. He set his flowers on the table to admire them. After all, it was probably the first and last time he'd ever get flowers from a lover. He giggled to himself.

Maybe the beer was making him mellow too.

_The city of Midland, __in the State of Texas__, in the Lone Star State __of Texas__, sleeps in the warm early summer haze. The lights twinkle like __Sherlock's eyes_

No too trite again. Even sorta sickening, thought John

_like the myriad stars of the Milky Way. _

Yeah, that sounds good, thought John, writing in his notebook in the dim light from the hotel room.

_After our encounter with the Mafia, again, (see preceding pages), we holed up here before we make our final push over the border and into Mexico. Sherlock has yet to make up his mind whether we should cross through El Paso and Juarez or head further south. _

_I think we should just hike across the desert and skip the border crossings entirely. I think we could drop off the map and then maybe the CIA and Mafia and probably the British Government would stop following us. This has really taken too long. Christ it's been two weeks, and we're still in the bloody USA and they keep finding us._

_Of course some nice things have happened too._

_Sherlock and I spent some quality time together this afternoon. __ So we did some stuff and then we were done and then we took a nap._

That sounds dumb. But I sure as hell can't write about the mind-numbing sex. Yeah. Let's keep that hidden safely in the Fortress.

_So then we had some sandwiches for dinner. I think the ham sandwich had__ Gruyère cheese on it. _

_I think I should spend some male bonding time with Ahsan. Maybe go out for a few __pint__s of beer. He loves to shop for some reason. So maybe I could take him shopping. I think I need a new hat. I'm still not sure about that fedora. It looks kind of gay on me. _

_Well, of course, I am gay, I guess. But should I keep the hat? Actually I'm more gay for HIM. (I know you'll read this, so please don't rub my face in it, OK?) Ha. Rub my face in it. Sherlock had razor stubble today. God it was, well it was nice._

Christ, I didn't even know I was gay until him, thought John. Well, I guess I'm technically bisexual. Except the idea of having sex with anyone, man or woman is just icky-unless it's with Sherl.

Christ I hope he doesn't get tired of me soon. I should try to be more interesting and exciting. I should try to be smarter. He likes other geniuses, like that damned Adler and God forbid, Moriarty. But it's not like I can just turn myself into a Criminal Mastermind just for Sherlock.

Maybe if I look better, I can keep him longer. I better start exercising even more. And no more sandwiches tonight. I don't want to get fat on top of everything else. After all, I am older, and that might be a big turn-off too.

John sipped at his beer deep in thought. Yeah, real genius time, worrying about my gender identity, how to keep my lover interested and how to get a hold of some Glamour Magazines to do some research. Bloody hell, there's got to be some other references that I can use besides Glamour Magazine.

Right, I need to finish writing. Ha, right and writing that's almost a pun, he thought smiling.

_It's sort of strange being part-time gay. Well. I guess it's full-time if I'm in a permanent, exclusive relationship with another man. And he is pretty definitely another man. Yeah. Razor stubble and um the other stuff. _

_OK, I am shagging a man. That just sounds so weird. Maybe I shouldn't write about it, it's too weird to write about sex, gay or straight. It's all good. Yeah, definitely good. But still weird. I'm rabblin, rambling. Maybe I had enougt enough beer_

_Ha! That reminds me. Harry will blow a gasket when she finds out that I am. Gay that is. I need another beer. Oh yeah, I just decided that I don't need anymore._

_Still don't know what to do about the hat._

_You know, I don't think things are going well for the John Watson Not-so Secret Mission either. Obvooiusll, ovioulsy, forget it, Clearly, Dimitri found us again last night. And I think Sherlock is nervous. (No offence, Sherlock). He only gets nervous when the shit is about to hit the fan. Kinda like right before The Fall. I have to admit I'm worried (No offence) _

Yeah, no offence, but actually I'm scared shitless, John admitted to himself. If I die, I lose Sherlock. If I get kidnapped, I lose Sherlock. If he gets killed or kidnapped, I lose Sherlock. And God knows I can't live, if I lose Sherlock.

Hell, I barely survived his one-night liaison with Vicky the Druggie-Tramp from Hell. I am so fucked.

_So this feels like that, like The Fall, all over again. Except this time I take the fall and I'm no genius so I don't have any clever plans for when the shit hits the fan, except Plan B, which is a pretty lame plan. So I am f-cked. _

_I hope it doesn't upset Sherlock too much if I get kidnapped which seems to be the main theme. I think we better have as much quality time as possible before I end up in Dimitri's or Mycroft's or Jones's clutches. Yup, lots of quality time is a good plan._

_Hopefully, they will leave Sherlock alone once they catch me. Well, obvoosously. Shite. I pretty definitely had enough beer. _

_OK, clearly, Mycroft would leave Sherlock alone. Well not alone, but I don't think he'd let Sherlock get hurt again. He's been real protective of Sherlock since his return. At this point, I'd just as soon turn myself into Mycroft's shifty little hands but that would be a betrayal of Sherlock so I won' t. BTW, I think his hands are bigger than mine since he is abnormally tall, but never mind. Anyway, I don't trust him either, but I guess he's the lesser of three evils. This is really rambling isn't it?_

_I sure as hell hope Dimitri doesn't catch me; his minions look bloody mean. And he's mafia. And I don't speak Russian. Of course Jones is a real piece of work too, lousy son of bitch. Him and his Men-in-Black._

_You know what? This whole mess sucks. Moran sucks for making this mess. I really hate Moran. Well, I hate Moriarty even more for changing Seb into a monster, cause that's when Seb made this mess. Yeah, fuck you Moriarty. Burn in hell. You can burn with him Seb, since you thought he was so great._

John glowered into the night for a while. He turned and looked at his flowers, cheering up a bit. After all, if Sherlock sent me flowers, that's a good sign. It means he'll probably call me in the morning.

John returned to his journal.

_OK, forget all the other stuff I wrote. Sherlock, you just need to remember that even though I'm not a genius or rich or powerful like some of your other friends, I love you. You should also remember that you promised that we are exclusive and permanent. I promise to remember it too. Maybe I'll call you in the morning._

Hmm, wondered John suddenly, if we're in the same hotel room, how can I call Sherlock in the morning?

* * *

John slouched back in his chair, his feet resting on the railing. He tried to push his problems aside for tonight. The army doctor was carefully rearranging his list of favorite sexual positions. He had a whole new set of positions to add to his old list, now that he was gay. He was trying to cross reference his favorite positions with his newly accepted definition of wall-sex, when Sherlock stepped outside.

"John, I cannot determine what part, if any, Victor Trevor played in last night's attempted abduction," John looked up blankly, quickly trying to switch his mental gears.

"I have hacked into several databases including the USA's Homeland Security," continued the consulting detective. "Don't roll your eyes, John; I needed the information. The point I wish to make, is that I can find nothing recent on Victor. I cannot even determine when he entered the United States, which is, in itself, suspicious. I presume that he is here illegally. We could threaten him with ICE, if he shows up again. Oh, you might be interested to know that he has several outstanding warrants back home."

Even in the dim light, Sherlock noted the attractive blush rising up his blogger's neck and face. "For heaven's sake, John. There is no reason for you to be embarrassed. I would not expect you to be able to find out about Victor's criminal record nor do I imagine that you would to think to threaten him with ICE and deportation."

"Now…no, hold on…" sputtered John indignantly. (But I already know all that, and the deportation threats were my idea,' whinged mini-John inside his Mind Fortress). "No…For your information…Well, in fact I already…"

The pacing detective ignored his blogger's stuttering.

"As for his connection with Dimitri; we have only circumstantial evidence," Sherlock continued. "But I do not believe in coincidences so I will assume, for now, that they have been in contact with one another. Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised to find that Victor is in the employ of the Russian, and that he was positioned in Dallas to intercept us. I deeply regret that I foolishly played into his hands and thus increased the risk for you, John."

"I don't _think_ that Mycroft leaked information out about you recently. He certainly wouldn't have dealings with Dimitri. But we know he was practically in bed with Jones. Mycroft in bed with another man; my mind is poisoned, John. I shall have to delete that image almost immediately."

"I can only hope that Mycroft has cut his CIA connection, but I cannot count on it," continued the younger man. "I am afraid that we must be even more cautious. Indeed, I do think that I shall have to abandon my fat brother's credit card now. Fortunately, I have used it all week to obtain cash."

"John, I feel that it is partly my fault that you got dragged into this, because Mycroft already knew you and was willing to sacrifice you to the Americans. I've only made it worse by trusting both Mycroft and Victor; it was incredibly foolish on my part," finished the detective.

Sherlock, angry with himself, continued to pace back and forth across the tiny balcony.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock, this isn't your fault at all. It's all due to my past with Moran. You didn't cause any of it... for once," said John, smiling to show that he was trying to joke with the detective.

"No John, I have made mistakes, and I admit it. Nevertheless, I feel that we must forge ahead and deal with our escape from the most imminent threat, which is Dimitri.

This was clearly going to take a while; John sat back and made himself comfortable. Well as comfortable as possible considering the rear guard action from earlier in the day. John smirked to himself, pleased with his play on words. He quickly jotted it down in his notebook. Then he tried to be conscientious, so he took notes on the detective's rambling discourse.

"Certainly, we must be very cautious when considering Dimitri…John, I see that you have been smirking about something. I do wish that you would pay attention" John wrinkled his brow, as he tried to look very serious. "Now as I was saying, we must be cautious, because Dimitri knows that you are in the area. I cannot pinpoint the man's location at this time, but that is not crucial. What is important is escaping his notice. Unfortunately, files from the FBI indicate that he has connections with one of the Mexican drug cartels operating throughout West Texas and…and what are you doing now?"

John was leaning over the railing and waving. Five women down on the street below waved back enthusiastically.

"Good God, John! You are practically naked! You are wearing nothing but an open shirt and your pants." said the detective aghast.

"It's dark out, Sherlock. I really don't think anyone can see anything from down on the street," said John.

"Idiot, no doubt they can see that you're half-naked, which is, indeed, a problem," pronounced Sherlock. He pushed John back into the hotel room and slid the door shut with a bang. "Is it pleasant in there?" he asked, jabbing John's temple with a finger. John grimaced from the sharp discomfort, "Is it nice and restful in there with nothing to think about? Did it occur to you that aside from exposing your assets to the rest of the world, some of the people on the street might be working for Dimitri?"

"Oh Christ, it was just a group of tipsy women. I really don't think…"

"No, you didn't think. You never think," interrupted Sherlock. "You are naïve, a virtual innocent. You must remain in hiding, not parade in front of people in your pants like a boy for hire and attracting the attention of everyone from the Mafia to some sex crazed women."

"I'm not naïve. And I am not a bloody boy for hire! Christ, I'm older than you! I am almost 40 years old, and can take care of myself, thank you very much," snapped John.

He very much wanted to storm out of the room, (thus executing Plan B), but of course the World's most Annoying Detective had foreseen this and planted himself in front of the door.

John sat down heavily on the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose in defeat. He would never outthink the genius. It was a waste of time to try.

"Look, Sherlock. Where are you going with all this? I cannot imagine how you tracked down this information. It's extraordinary, but does it change anything. I mean what are we supposed to do with it all? Assuming that the authorities aren't aware of your hacking into their data bases…"

"They aren't. I had the help of an old friend; well when I say friend… Anyway, this person owes me a favor and has done most of the hacking for me," said the detective, who maintained his defensive stance in front of the door. John had a tendency of storming off whenever he became irritated with Sherlock and that tendency could not be indulged now.

"Right. And do you actually think that we can avoid this Russian and his drug cartel mates and the CIA…"

"Oh, I think we've shaken off the CIA for now, John. It is Dimitri that is the immediate concern," said Sherlock, leaning back against the door. Sherlock tried not to think about the last time he leaned against the door. He would force his mind to keep on task for now.

"Alright John, I will not _bore_ you with the facts for now," said the patronizing detective. However, I will tell you that I shall book some hotel rooms in Laredo, using Mycroft's card, as a decoy, and we will instead head to El Paso and Cuidad Juarez. I have contacts in El Paso, from my work over the past couple of years. They can obtain new ID's for us and provide me with more money if I need it."

"So then what?" asked John, pleased to be getting concrete plans from the detective.

"Well, from there we shall wait and see," said Sherlock with a mysterious half-smile.

John should have known that it was too good to be true. "So, are you actually going to tell me our plans or will it be a surprise?" asked John.

"A surprise, I think," said the smug detective.

John fell back with a sigh. This did not bode well for John.

**TBC **(One more chapter…)(?)

**A/N Thanks** to everyone reading and following this fiction. Thanks especially to my reviewers for Chapter 19. You help me improve my writing and encourage me with your support (This means you booda77, InuChimera7410,Wicked Winter, ruvy91, power0girl, .mightier, and especially Rose O'Sharon.)

**Disclaimer**-I do not own the rights to Sherlock or Watson. This fiction is intended purely as light entertainment for like-minded Johnlock shippers and myself.


	21. Chapter 21

A/N Yeah, OK. I lied. Maybe _this _is the penultimate chapter. I suppose I should go and change the A/N from chapter 20 so that it doesn't claim to be the penultimate chapter (Sighs deeply). Anyway, it's not entirely my fault. Sherlock and Ahsan made me redo the ending, and it simply made the chapter too long.

My apologies for inadvertently scaring "anon" nearly to death with my picture of the hedgehog. You have to watch out for hedgehogs, you know. They look so cute and adorable, and then BAM, they jump out and squeak at you or smother you with sweetness. Gah! Too saccharine!

So, onto …

**Chapter 21**

"No, I will not, for any reason, get into any cargo box, Sherlock." John paced back and forth like a trapped animal in their cheap motel room.

"John it is a large space, two refrigerator boxes strapped together. There will be plenty of room. You will have a knife and a box cutter, so that you can escape at any time. And obviously you'll have a light. And, John, listen," Sherlock put out a hand to stop the marching soldier. John flinched away, and continued pacing. "John, I will be in there with you," added the detective finally grasping his partner's shoulder.

John glared up at his supposed lover, who seemed to love locking John in, small, closet-like spaces. "You are going to lock yourself in a crate with me."

"Certainly, John. I would not ask you to face this alone. Not so soon after that debacle at the Delaware River. We will not really be locked in anyway. As I said," Sherlock continued, even going so far as to repeat himself, for John's sake. "You'll be able to cut your way out at any time. I imagine that we will need to hide for only a couple of hours," said the detective, using his false, reassuring voice and his fake sincere smile. John was not fooled.

"It could take all day. It probably will take all day just to get through customs. We'll be stuck in the back of some truck. We might get heat stroke or suffocate or fall in the Rio Grand River and then drown, again. That's assuming that we aren't trapped with brown recluse spiders or tarantulas. They do live in the Southwest of the United States of America you know," said the blond, pale with anger and stress. Of course he wasn't afraid. Soldiers were not afraid of packing crates or spiders.

"Alright, John. Well... there is only one other option," said the manipulative detective, closing the trap on his unsuspecting blogger. "I will disguise you as Ahsan's Pakistani grandmother."

"Oh no! Not the burqa! I refuse to be Burqa-Boy again. No, not happening!"barked the shorter man.

"You have some experience with this then?" asked Sherlock, trying to quell the smile forming on his lips.

"Too bloody right! Just because I am not abnormally tall, I always had to wear the burqas. Seb and Chas thought it was so funny to call me Burqa-Boy. HA. HA. Very funny, NOT!" fumed the soldier.

John stormed into the farthest corner of the room; he stood rigidly, with his arms crossed. Once more, the devious detective was barring the door with his body, making John's escape impossible.

Note to self, always find the exit and place yourself near it. John posted his mental note on the new, solid-metal, vault-style door to his Mind Fortress.

"John, you must choose between the box or the burqa," said the detective authoritatively.

"Absolutely not. Never. I refuse!" yelled John, his voice creeping upward in pitch. He glowered in fierce determination as he stuck a new cigar in his mouth. "No boxes and no burqas," he muttered.

"Good. I don't believe a burqa would be appropriate for you to wear anyway," said the smiling detective.

"Good," said John, still not trusting his partner.

* * *

I hate Sherlock Holmes. In fact, I hate Ahsan. In fact, I hate everyone, everywhere, thought John. But I especially hate The World's Most Devious Consulting Detective.

The gorgeous but detested man, stood at the front of the line waiting to pass through customs. To assist with their disguises, least fifteen people stood between him and John.

John sweat profusely under a grey wig and a heavy dark-print scarf that effectively hid most of his face. Dark sunglasses helped to mask his kohl-lined eyes. A thick, black shalwar kameez cloaked his frame, and gloves concealed his hands. The outfit was not a burqa, but it induced heat stroke just as effectively, thought the suffering doctor, who was dressed as an old woman.

Although it was not yet 10 am, the streets had begun to bake under a blazing sun at the border crossing between El Paso and Ciudad Juarez. John tried, in vain, to imagine a cool, rainy day in London. He tried to retreat into his Mind Fortress but found it simmering in the hot sun too. The imaginary cement blocks in the courtyard of his Mind Fortress were hot enough to cook an imaginary egg on.

Stupid Sherlock could probably imagine that his Mind Palace was in a nice temperate zone with a lovely cool breeze. He had probably installed central air conditioning in his Mind Palace too. John could not even imagine shade or a portable fan for his Mind Fortress. Stupid, useless, mental fortress of doom.

He glared at Ahsan, his supposed grandson. John was miserable, and Ahsan was a convenient target.

Ahsan, once more with black hair, ignored his glowering Nani. He produced false ID's for himself and his grandmother. The customs agents gave their passports a cursory glance . Understandably, the agents were more interested in the pretty, young, scantily clad, female tourists who were, coincidentally, next in line. Understandably, Ahsan was also more interested in the young ladies, and he virtually ignored his Nani.

Eventually, Ahsan finished chatting up the cute blonde wearing a multicolored tank top, and he led his Nani across the Zaragoza Bridge into Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. His Nani stomped alongside him with a heavy limp, using a cane.

His Nani wanted to use the cane to smack Ahsan a few times. He even imagined swinging it at the giggling girls who were still flirting with the attractive young man.

Girls used to flirt with me, thought John in dismay. Now look at me, dressed-up as an old woman with bloody eye make-up. And a kid young enough to be my son gets to lead me around like a dog. Well, maybe he's not young enough to be my son. But it still sucks.

John sweat profusely under the heavy clothing. He sweat from nerves and from the hot sun beating down on his covered head. He was too hot to feel gratitude or relief when they successfully passed into Mexico.

The multilingual crowd chattered loudly, and the noise hurt John's head. The smells assaulted his already nervous stomach. The smells of hot, sweaty people, crammed close together mingled unpleasantly with the smells of hot melting asphalt and greasy Tex-Mex foods. The whole thing makes me nauseous, actually, nauseous and dizzy. Thank God I did not eat any breakfast, thought John.

Ahsan led his grumbling Nani to join Ahsan's tall, thin, dark-haired 'cousin', who chatted with Ahsan in fluent Urdu. They thought John did not understand Urdu. Well, he understood Urdu well enough to grasp that they were on their way to the market. He also understood that Sherlock and Ahsan were joking that John made an excellent old woman. John gripped the cane tighter; he really wanted to knock the smiles off of each of their faces.

To add insult to injury, the urbane cousin managed to look cool and comfortable in his expensive linen suit, despite the hot sun beating down on them. Yup, _his_ Mind Palace has air conditioning and ceiling fans, thought John.

They strolled to the market for Ahsan's shopping trip and to allow Sherlock to check for anyone tailing them. The detective periodically scanned the crowds for anyone who might be following them.

John tried looking around too but received a dismissive glare from the consulting detective. Evidently, John was too stupid to aid in the surveillance. Stupid, consulting dick.

This was not, _definitely not_, what John had envisioned for a shopping trip. He needed some water but had no money. His rude friends had left him in the dust, literally in the hot, dry dust. John was probably dying of dehydration right, surrounded by strangers.

Ha, the local coroner or whatever they were called in Mexico will get a rude shock when they start the autopsy on a little old lady who ends up being a little, old, man. Not that John was little or even old, really. But he was a man who was going to die dressed as woman and wearing eye make-up. Think of the humiliation. Please God, just let them bury me here in Mexico; please don't let the guys back home hear of this disgrace.

* * *

Once they reached the crowded market, they were out of the sun. It was still very hot and stuffy, according to the army doctor dressed as an old Pakistani woman. Christ, I'm really going to pass out from heat exhaustion soon, thought John. He tried to catch the detective's eye, but Sherlock was buying something. Something ridiculous. It looked like a mummified snake and some other repulsive curiosity. Was it a bat, a dried out bat? It will probably make the luggage stink to high heaven, thought John with disgust.

Well it can go in Sherlock's garment bag, decided John. He watched a child pass by, eagerly eating a cup of shaved ice. He actually considered stealing it from the poor little girl.

Yes, he was suffering mental deterioration, a certain symptom of heat exhaustion.

John realized with a start that Sherlock and Ahsan had begun to move far ahead. He stumbled after his supposed grandson and cousin. He just wanted to go to the hotel. John couldn't remember what time they could check into their hotel room. He couldn't remember what time it was now. He didn't know how to say, 'I'm bloody dying, get me out of here', in Urdu. John could probably say it in Pashto, but neither of his bloody, so-called friends spoke Pashto. Maybe he could say it in Arabic. Didn't Ahsan speak Arabic?

Oh God, now what is that git buying? Look at them, both of them, buying snake-skin belts or something equally stupid, while their 'Nani' passes out in the heat. Stupid, self-centered brutes. What do they care if Nani dies, surrounded by complete strangers?

A group of tourists shoved John into a table covered with large beetles, large living bugs decorated with paint and cheap jewels. Oh, God, some kind of living jewelry! The salesman held one out to the horrified 'old woman'.

It was a large Maquech Beetle, with a thin, chain leash glued on to its decorated body. The beetle was painted with gold and studded with sequins and rhinestones. "A living brooch," said the man, as the poor insect wiggled its poor legs. Good God! It's animal cruelty, thought John angrily. His gloved hands became fists beneath the heavy, long, loose blouse. He shook his head furiously and stormed away.

Where the hell were Sherlock and Ahsan? John fumed, as the crowd pushed him past more shops. He was shoved in front of a store selling birds and parrots. More animal cruelty, John decided. He was jostled into the shop and shoved against another display table. He muttered curses in Pashto, Arabic and English.

He turned and saw that the table held pet tarantulas. The zealous huckster actually handed one to John. It dropped heavily onto his arm. Bloody hell! A great, giant hairy spider is crawling on my arm. "No!" croaked John, aka Nani.

He shook his arm and it clung to him. Were those fangs? The shopkeeper was yelling about his precious bloody spider. Someone else shouted about mistreating a about a poor old lady. What poor old lady? Wait, I'm the poor old lady, thought John in where the fuck is my gun? Everyone seemed to be yelling now in several languages. John barely managed to stifle his moan.

The giant spider crawled up his arm. The brightly colored storefronts and canvas awnings blurred together like children's finger paints. John remembered that he used to like finger paints; they were so bright and colorful and cool and squishy. Cool and squishy sounded pretty nice actually. And he was falling, and it didn't really seem that unpleasant, not with all the pretty bright colors spinning together.

John, aka Nani, fell back into the arms of a tall, kind, German woman, who supported the surprisingly heavy old woman. Suddenly, two young men appeared. They each took a hold of Nani while thanking the Good Samaritan in heavily accented English.

The taller man glanced to the side, glaring death at the instantly quiet spider seller. He thoughtfully adjusted Nani's scarf, which was in danger of falling off. Then Nani was whisked out of the market. A young man supported her on each side, despite her apparent protests. The tall, handsome cousin magically summoned a taxi to take them all to their hotel in Juarez, Mexico.

They checked in at a small, older hotel. Climbing the stairs, they murmured soothing reassurances to the old woman. She angrily hissed back at them when she bothered to respond to them at all. At the door to her hotel room, she ungratefully snatched her luggage from the hands of her grandson and then slammed the door in their faces.

John locked and bolted the door, throwing his duffel and backpack to the floor as hard as possible.

With a vicious growl, John yanked the headscarf and scratchy wig off his head and threw them on the ground. The soldier was sorely tempted to shoot the wig with the gun in his backpack. He stomped on the wig a couple of times, just to be sure there were no giant spiders in it.

Why am I always,_ always,_ the one who ends up dressed as the woman? He tore off each piece of the hateful shalwar kameez. The blouse and loose pants joined the wig and headscarf on the floor of the hotel room. He kicked the pile into the corner for good measure.

Dragged through the hot, blazing streets wearing enough clothes for winter and then abandoned by his friends, only to be attacked by giant spiders. God! Bloody Hell! Giant spiders! And think of those poor bizarre beetles.

With another growl, John threw himself on the bed wearing only his black pants. He tossed and turned in the heat. The thin, lacy curtains allowed the searing sun in to bake the room.

He wasn't allowed to leave the room, "For security purposes" said Sherlock bloody Holmes. He wasn't supposed to open his windows either. No John was trapped in this oven of a room. I'll probably die from heat stroke even in here. John sat up to drink his second tasteless warm bottle of water.

It was impossible to get comfortable. Even with the damned costume off, and even under the fan, John was dying. How had he ever survived Afghanistan? Well, at least in Afghanistan he wasn't dressed as an old woman in heavy black clothes and a wig. At least in Afghanistan he had plenty of water to drink. At least in Afghanistan he only faced insurgents and Taliban and snipers and snakes, not bloody great spiders, the spawn of Ungoliant*.

Yeah, the spawn of Ungoliant, he thought, restlessly kicking his socks off.

He was left alone in a steaming hot room with no food and nothing to drink, except the stupid tepid water.

No one cares if I die in here. I should just sneak out the window. Yeah, I'd show _him_, thought John, angrily.

Unfortunately, John was just too tired and dizzy to try to escape his over-heated prison. Anyway, it would further inflame the consulting dick, who was already furious at John for fainting in the market.

John flopped back on the bed, his legs dangling over the edge. It's not as though I really fainted, thought John sourly.

John had tried to explain about heat exhaustion and syncopal episodes, and how they were completely different from fainting. The detective ignored his explanations. I'm the doctor. I should know if I fainted or not...

Oh bloody hell. Who am I trying to kid? I fainted, in public and dressed as a woman. It's mortifying. Sherlock probably thinks I'm a twat. I am a twat, and there's nothing lovable or sexy about a twat who faints in public.

John stared miserably at the few shadows in the too bright room and watched the fan spin round and round. Stupid fan, blowing stupid hot air and spinning round and round. Stupid Sherlock, just leaving me again. It's his fault I had to slam the door in his face. He told me to lock the door after all.

John finally passed out in the fan's warm breeze, still muttering about stupid detectives and stupid fans and stupid Ungoliant and her stupid nasty spawn.

* * *

John woke up in the soft purple light of dusk. It was still hot, but at least, it was no longer an inferno. A breeze carried in the scents of the dusty street and the smoke from a street vender's grill. He smelled some kind of food on that breeze. What ever they were selling, it smelled good.

He could hear the traffic and a group of people gabbling and laughing under his window. His breath caught in his throat. The warm breeze_ blew the curtains gently into the room_; his window was open. Someone had opened his window. Someone was in his room.

After only a moment's hesitation, the soldier slowly lifted his head. His eyes locked onto the silvery eyes of Sherlock Holmes. The detective sat in the room's only chair. He was in his thinking pose, fingers steepled in front of his face, staring at his blogger.

John looked over at the door that he had bolted; it was still bolted, of course.

"How? How did you get in here?" asked John, his voice scratchy from his long siesta.

Sherlock enigmatically raised an eyebrow.

"I hate that. I hate when you do that, looking all enigmatic and mysterious" Sherlock remained silent. "How long have you been sitting there? Why? Why are you just sitting there?" demanded John hoarsely. The only sounds were the whirring of the fan and the sound of passing traffic in the street.

"I was watching you, of course," Sherlock finally answered enigmatically. "I brought you some iced tea and fresh juice, John. Your choice," he licked his lips. "They are both still cold."

The detective looked fresh and cool as always. He had removed his dark suit jacket and hung it on a hanger on the back of the door. The sleeves of his purple shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Just how many purple shirts did the man have? He leaned forward onto his elbows, eyes intent on the man in front of him.

* * *

Sherlock had sat and watched over his blogger for hours. He needed to be sure that John suffered no ill effects from heat exhaustion. He woke John only once, to make him drink some more water. John had barely roused, but he had dutifully swallowed all the water, before he fell back down in deep slumber.

Having Googled heat stress disorders, Sherlock only became more concerned. He had allowed his blogger to suffer from dehydration and over-heating. It was inexcusable. Fortunately, rest and fluids seemed to have provided relief. Still he worried; so he sat watch over his sleeping partner.

At least in sleep, John wasn't angry. As if it was Sherlock's fault that John had managed to misplace himself. Surely even John must realize that John had perfected the ability to get into trouble entirely on his own. Sherlock suppressed a shudder, remembering his panic when John had disappeared for five minutes.

Sherlock had shoved his way though the throng, attracted to shouts from a pet store. He assumed, correctly of course, that if there was a disturbance, then his blogger would somehow be involved.

He had found his disguised doctor only semiconscious, in the arms of a beautiful, German blonde. Sherlock had torn his wilting blogger from the Good Samaritan. He and Ahsan had dragged John to a taxi, but Sherlock's fear and jealousy had made him treat his partner a bit too harshly.

During the long hot afternoon, Sherlock had considered moving John's legs to a more comfortable position but was reluctant to wake his blogger a second time.

Besides, John was exceedingly attractive, sprawled out on the bed. His legs hanging over the bed and parted, as if waiting for Sherlock. He had admired John's firm, muscled legs with the light brown hair that occasionally blew in the breeze. He visually memorized as much of John as possible. Each time he considered John's form, there was something that he had missed on previous examinations. For instance, how had he missed that scar on John's thigh? It was old and pale but several inches long. There was always something.

And John lay there for hours, softly snoring in the late afternoon sun. A beautiful, golden man, and he belonged to Sherlock Holmes. The thought made Sherlock's breath hitch and set his chest on fire, again.

John didn't truly wake up until evening, when a group of tourists passed by laughing and calling out to one another. Sherlock glared at the window, furious at the rude people who disturbed his John.

John roused slowly, deliberately, only gradually realizing that he had company. He was such an innocent, thought the detective. And _that_ worried the detective excessively.

* * *

John sat up and scratched at his sleep-tousled hair. Silly, enigmatic detective. The army doctor looked down, suddenly remembering that he was naked except for his pants.

"Well, you must be bored with only me to watch," joked the army doctor, feeling a bit embarrassed in front of the fully clothed detctive.

John decided to have some juice. Naturally, the consulting detective had read his mind and handed the glass to him, his fingers brushing John's. The simple touch sent an electric jolt up John's arm. The doctor gratefully sipped his cold orange juice, while the water condensate dripped off the glass and onto John's bare thigh.

"You are not boring John. You are endlessly fascinating," Sherlock licked his lips again, glancing at the water droplets on John's skin, then back up to John's eyes. His blogger's eyes were dilated, with only narrow bands of dark blue iris visible, dark blue like the shadows of the room.

John glanced up from under his crinkled brow, thinking that Sherlock was making fun of him. John met the silvery eyes and then unconsciously mimicked the detective, when he slowly licked his own lips. Maybe Sherlock wasn't making fun of him.

John cleared his throat. "Um, I see you have your laptop. Any news?" asked the soldier, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Sherlock kept staring at him, for God's sake.

"I am concerned. The chatter picked up by the CIA and MI6 includes frequent references to Juarez. There were mentions of the Russian coming to Juarez as well," said Sherlock leaning on his elbows again, his whipcord forearms exposed. As usual, being alone, with Sherlock so close, made it hard for John to think. He had to get over this. He had to learn to worship the gorgeous detective only **At the Appropriate Time.**

"So do we make a run for it?" God the man was so distracting, with his elfin eyes and that hair drooping into his eyes. And those hands that could play John like a violin. "Um, maybe I should head out on my own. I'd have no problem crossing the desert on foot, as long as I traveled at night and carried water," suggested John.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes; in the shadows he looked a bit dangerous. Well, he was dangerous, and John loved danger.

"You will not hare off across the desert alone, John. We are partners. That has been established," snapped the consulting detective. "We will get up at 3am and leave here before sunrise. I have planned a diversion that should help us escape without being followed. Ahsan has already acquired a jeep and we will drive further south before attempting to board a plane to India or possibly Asia. It is entirely possible that our disguises have worked, and we are already safe. I just feel we should exercise extreme caution."

"Ha, that doesn't sound like you. You and caution don't go together," said John, trying to lighten the mood.

Water from the outside of his glass dripped again, onto his leg, setting off a chill and raising goose-flesh on his thigh.

The water beading on the soldier's hot flesh mesmerized the consulting detective.

Sherlock slowly unfolded from his chair, graceful, beautiful and predatory, like a stalking panther. Which makes me the prey, thought John. But further thought was virtually impossible with the World's Sexiest Detective looming over him. Why did Sherlock always jam his command and control centers?

John tried to look casual and sip his drink, but his heart was racing and his skin was suddenly on fire. Did Sherlock know? Of course he knew. He knew everything; he …

Sherlock stood between John's legs, which still dangled over the bed. His trousers gently brushed John's burning skin, inflaming the soldier more.

With one, long, pale finger, Sherlock wiped up the water droplets on John's thigh and then slowly licked his finger. It tasted salty, and musky.

His blogger's hand trembled. I make John tremble, thought the detective with a wave of possessiveness and desire. He took the glass from his blogger and set the cold, wet glass against John's neck. The bruises from two nights ago were already fading. That would have to be rectified. He slowly trailed the dripping glass over John's collar-bone, water pooled in the hollow above the clavicle, then slowly dripped down John's chest, losing itself in his golden hair.

John's entire body shuddered.

Enraptured, Sherlock dragged the cold glass over John's tense nipple, now glistening with water. He bent down to slowly lap at the dusky pink nipple. John's eyes finally closed; he moaned as his head dropped back. He braced his hands behind him so that he wouldn't fall back.

Sherlock's tongue followed the track of cool water down his bloggers chest and over the rigid muscles of his abdomen. His tongue left a trail of fire behind it. It stopped at John's pants. Sherlock stood back up, looking at the golden man splayed in front of him, for him.

"John," whispered the tall man, tilting his head. How did John stir his lust by just sitting on a bed? How had John become so important? He could not imagine living with out his blogger. "John, you must never leave me," demanded Sherlock.

"Never," agreed John, his voice cracking. But they both knew how these things worked, didn't they, wondered John? After all, Moriarty had taught them that hearts could be burned; Mycroft had told them, all hearts are broken. It was inevitable; something you could really trust.

Sherlock's pale hands held John's face. John gazed up, his dark eyes pleading, needing. Sherlock sank down to bury his head against John's chest, wrecked by John's look of love and lust.

John pulled himself up to embrace his young, dark-haired demigod. He buried his hands in the dark curls; he buried his face in the cinnamon and sweat scented curls.

"Sherl," said John, suppressing a sob. And, where the hell did that come from, wondered John. God, don't let me cry on top of all the other stupid things I've done today. " Sherl, take me. Make me yours. Make me yours forever."

Sherlock looked up and lost himself in the dark night skies of his John's eyes. John was so trusting, so vulnerable. He needed to protect this man. He was frightened by his need for this man.

He looks so young and lost tonight, thought John. My God.

"My God, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherl." John kissed his detective's forehead, his eyes, his razor-sharp cheekbones his Cupid's bow mouth, oh his mouth with the sexy-pouty lip. John gave comfort and love to his dark lover. The army doctor moaned and deepened the kiss. His demanding tongue pushed into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock descended onto his blogger, the dark night settling on the desert sands. He took John Watson and made him his own. And then he did it again fiercely in the dark night of Juarez.

**A/N**

*Ungoliant-an evil spirit, in spider form, from the Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien. Also mentioned in LOTR

Thank you to everyone who reviewed Chapter 20 including Rose O'Sharon, Wicked Winter, InuChimera7410, power0girl, darkhearted243 and also 'anon'. Everyone, who comments or reviews, helps me to write better and gives me the confidence to keep trying. **My Thanks.**

Thank you also to everyone who follows my work or favorites it- what a compliment! **THANKS**

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any characters from the Sherlock BBC series or Sherlock Holmes books. But I love them as if they were my own; I can't help it!


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N** The ultimate (as in the last) chapter, whew! Many delays, mostly due to my erratic internet service. Anyway...

**Chapter 22**

John awoke in the dark; he could just make out the shadowy form of Sherlock shaking his shoulder. The fan stirred the blue and purple shadows and blew Sherlock's dark locks over his forehead.

"John, get dressed. Ahsan is in trouble with the police. He is at the local station. I'm going there to see what I can do; the message that I received from the front desk is most unclear," said the detective, who smoothed the front of his jacked down.

"Well, I'm coming with you…" began John trying to pull a pair of jeans over his sticky skin.

"No you are not. This could be a trap, John. It smells like a trap," said the taller man.

"But…"

"I am quite sure that I can handle this, alone. I want you to pack what you need and head south toward Chihuahua. I have placed sufficient funds in your backpack," Sherlock placed his fingers over John's lips to still the protests. "I plan to extract Ahsan, and then catch up to you in a few hours. You must trust no one but me, John, and I need you to follow my instructions exactly."

"No. I won"t. You say it's a trap; well, I won't let you go without me. This is ridiculous," snarled John, pulling his boots on over his socks.

"You are the one they want,John. Once you are caught, the game is over. You _must_ remain free. You will follow my instructions and flee ten minutes after I leave," said Sherlock fiercely.

Sherlock bent down and kissed John hard. His tongue drove in and swept through his lovers mouth. John tried halfheartedly to push away. He knew Sherlock was manipulating him and deliberately short circuiting John's Command and Control functions, yet again. Still, he had to kiss back, pulling in the sexy-pouty lip and biting it gently.

The World's Most Manipulative Consulting Detective bit back hard on John's lip and then rained down gentle teasing kisses along John's neck. He suddenly bit down again and sucked leaving a painful bruise where John's shoulder met his neck. It left the army doctor gasping.

"I estimate that it will take you at least five minutes to find the key to the handcuffs, John. Do as I ask. Escape to Chihuahua and I will come to find you soon," said Sherlock.

John tugged his left arm in vain against the handcuff, pulling the entire bed away from the wall. Sherlock dodged a flying right punch. He ducked in and kissed his hissing and sputtering blogger one last time before running out of the room.

John erupted with one ringing cry of protest, "Sherlock!"

The younger man ignored the curses that followed and rushed down the steps and through the darkened lobby.

Sherlock seriously considered abandoning was the detective's primary concern, and, after all, Mycroft could easily extract Ahsan later. However, John always spouted military maxims like 'leave no man behind'. The detective knew that John would never abandon a friend, and John would never forgive Sherlock if Ahsan, was left behind. Therefore, he had to rescue Ahsan for John.

Within minutes, Sherlock arrived at the local Police station. It took persistent questioning in both Spanish and English before Sherlock could gain any answers. Apparently, the police had arrested Ahsan on suspicion of drug possession. Nevertheless, the police would neither discuss the evidence with Sherlock, nor would they allow him to talk to the young Pakistani-American.

It was clear that Sherlock could accomplish nothing further at the station, and he stormed to the door. Before he could escape, two officers grabbed his arms. Speaking only in Spanish (as if that would confuse him, sneered Sherlock to himself), they confiscated his papers and mobile phone. Just as Sherlock had suspected, this was a trap. Fear for John began to gnaw deep in his chest. Was John safe? Would he be so foolish as to follow after Sherlock? Surely John would follow Sherlock's explicit instructions and flee towards Chihuahua.

Sherlock looked for escape. He noted that the janitor had cigarettes in his back pocket. Sherlock easily pick-pocketed the janitor for matches. Then he started a smoldering fire in the women's room (Why make himself the obvious suspect; let them blame it on the prostitutes who had begun processing a few minutes before Sherlock's arrival.)

Soon the police station was filling with smoke, in the ensuing confusion, Sherlock darted out the door and ran into several officers in front of the station. Each officer held a handgun pointed at Sherlock.

Sherlock uttered empty threats, as the Mexican policemen locked the detective in a dingy, grey interrogation room. In spite of the lingering smoke, the room smelled of old sweat and something even more vile. They left him alone with a steaming cup of some liquid that may once have been coffee.

Next, a two detectives, apparently distant cousins of Anderson, swamped Sherlock with paperwork and endless, pointless questions. They charged him with nothing but still refused to let him leave. He was not allowed to contact anyone, not even the British Embassy.

This was a bit not good. No one knew where he was except John, who was, hopefully, already far away from Juarez. The consulting detective tried to devise a strategy that would allow him to escape, allow him to check on Ahsan, or (and this was distasteful) allow him to contact the British Government.

His fingers drummed nervously on the sticky table top. He desperately craved nicotine; he should have stolen the janitor's cigarettes, when he had the chance.

The hours dragged past. He had not, as yet, been able to formulate a plan of escape. He heard nothing about John Watson. That was good, it probably meant that John had actually followed Sherlock's instructions and fled south.

Unless John was so idiotic that he couldn't find the key. No, John was, indeed, an idiot, but he was still less idiotic than 99% of the human race. He was also more determined and stubborn than any one, other than Sherlock himself. So John would have freed himself one way or another; so John must be free and heading to Chihuahua.

Unless this whole police fiasco was a decoy, and Sherlock had all but delivered John into the hands of kidnappers. Underneath his calm demeanor, Sherlock broke out into a sweat. His agitated fingers danced even faster on top of the table.

He inclined his head when the door opened, and a pretty, dark-haired Mexican Policewoman entered. Two policemen stood guard behind her, with guns drawn. She handed Sherlock another cup of the so-called coffee.

"Està fresco. Beba ahora, por favor," she offered with a smile. Then she exited, locking the door behind her.

Sherlock's head tilted down towards the cup and back towards the door; his eyes narrowed. The disguise did not hide the woman's blue eyes, snub nose, pink complexion or petite frame. The World's Only Consulting Detective had immediately recognized Mary Morstan of the CIA.

He instinctively distrusted Mary Morstan, who may still have personal designs on his John. Therefore, the detective only pretended to sip his coffee. Then he pretended to cough, spilling a good bit of the coffee. There was a note crudely written at the bottom of the cup. No doubt such subterfuge seemed clever to agents of the CIA. The note read:

_**Extraction-10 minutes MH Krug Brut 1988**_

Mycroft! Well, not Mycroft personally of course; it wasn't even Mycroft's handwriting. But that was his brother's favorite champagne; no doubt signalling that this note and the messenger were to be trusted.

Yes, somehow, the British Government was aware of Sherlock's detention and would intervene. Well, what took the fat man so long anyway, and why was Morstan of the CIA involved?

Sherlock sat with his leg crossed over his knee, mentally counting down the time. Mycroft's Mexican minions clearly lost track of the time, because it was eleven minutes and 43 seconds before the first explosion occurred. Sherlock ran to the door, but it was still locked.

A second explosion, louder than the first, rocked the station and Sherlock heard people running. They were getting closer; the detective braced himself, ready to fight. The door burst open.

"Move your ass, Holmes!" yelled Mary Morstan. Ahsan, wide-eyed, but apparently uninjured, stood behind the CIA agent with a handgun.

"Are you sure you know how to handle that gun?" Sherlock asked Ahsan.

"Yes, yes of course, don't be so very ridiculous. John Watson gave me the lessons," snapped the younger man.

"Oh my God you two, this isn't the time to argue. To the side door, follow me," said Morstan. She led them past an unlocked gate.

Guns fired ahead of them in the hallway. As they came around the corner they saw two men in police uniform pointing guns down the corridor that led to the lobby and offices. Ahsan raised his gun.

"No, Ahsan, those are our agents," said Mary Morstan. "They'll cover us. Come on!"

Mary led Sherlock and Ahsan to an open fire exit, the bright mid-morning sun streamed in. Outside, tall, black man, wearing the uniform of the Mexican Federal Police, stood by a black van. He held his rifle casually. Sherlock recognized Mitchell of the CIA.

"In the van, hurry," yelled the tall agent.

Sherlock turned and tried to duck down the alley, but Mitchell grabbed him by the back of his jacket. "Holmes, it's too late to go after Watson now." The consulting detective struggled harder and tried to twist around.

"OK, Holmes, take it easy, don't get all panicky. We pretty sure think he's OK, for now at any rate. Just get in the damned van. I'll try to explain everything..."

* * *

It took three minutes of cursing and pointless thrashing around before John could force himself to calm down enough to look for the key to the bloody handcuffs. With his left hand cuffed to the bed, John tried searching for the key in his pants pockets, the nightstand, under the pillows and then in his boots. He found the bloody key inside his bloody right boot, under the bloody lining. Stupid, arrogant, son of bitch Sherlock bloody Holmes, the army doctor growled viciously.

John shoved his boot back on and pulled a tee-shirt over his head. He couldn't find his jumper so he grabbed Sherlock's purple shirt and pulled in on over his shirt, ready to run after the love of his life, the stupid know-it-all git.

John jumped when his phone alerted him to a message.

Odd, it was a picture of Sherlock entering the police station. The detective must have just arrived at there. Why the picture? John felt very uneasy as he dug desperately for his handgun at the bottom of his backpack.

With another warning ping, a text message followed .

**As you see, my men have your friends in their sights. Come to the lobby. Unarmed and alone. You have five minutes before my friends begin to shoot.**

"Shite. Bloody hell," muttered John, trying to call Sherlock.

"Pick up your bloody phone, Sherlock. Pick up. Pick up….No. No, not voice mail." He tried dialing the consulting detective again. Then he tried Ahsan's mobile phone.

John froze, as his phone pinged again.

Another picture showed Sherlock standing in the station, one hand raised in agitation; no doubt, he was arguing with the police. A typical Sherlockinan tantrum appeared to be in full swing. There was no sign of Ahsan.

So what then? Were the police cooperating with the people making these threats?

The phone pinged yet again. John broke out in a cold sweat

**You have one minute.**

Damn. Bloody fucking hell. He began to hyperventilate. Hell, get a grip on yourself Watson, he thought. What to do? What do I do?

There was no choice. No bloody choice at all. Still, there was one thing he could do. He sent his own text. In his haste, his frantic fingers stumbled over the screen.

**Mycroft. Sherlok in popp police custdy? juarez Mexico. extreme danger XXX Possib, from dimitri? potect my loved ones if u want yr stupid wepon. I mean itJw**

John dropped his phone on the bed. He ran out the door and clattered down the steps. Victor Trevor was waiting for him with a smile in the dimly lit lobby. John scrawled a note quickly on the wall, before approaching his kidnappers.

Well, Vicky. Big surprise, NOT, thought John, going into soldier mode. John parted his lips in a feral grin, "Hello, Vicky. I see you've been demoted to errand boy. I bet you got in trouble for losing some of your fairy dust. Isn't that what you call it, since you're a fairy and all?" said John, still smiling.

A couple of large men had grabbed John's arms. Only when John was safely restrained, did Victor get close enough to slap John with the butt of his gun. John's head was ringing and his jaw went numb. He still managed to kick the bloody bastard in the shin. He forced himself to smile at Vicky, despite the pain.

"Christ is that the best you can do, Vicky? My poor, old, sickly mum hit harder than that," taunted John. Victor lunged forward to strike the army doctor again, but the Big and Bald guy pushed Victor aside, muttering something unintelligible.

Oh God, that is almost definitely Russian, thought John, with a sinking feeling. Yup, I am well and truly fucked. The two huge men dragged the army doctor out into the sleepy, predawn street. A black car with tinted glass waited in front of the old hotel. And why were the cars always black?

Big and Ugly got in first. John was forced roughly into the car by Big and Bald. But Big and Bald is pretty damn ugly too, thought John, rubbing his shoulder that already protested against the manhandling.

The small blond was squeezed in tightly between the two big and distinctly unfriendly men. Victor was in the front seat.

"I will not tell you anything, if I cannot be assured of my friend's safety," gasped John.

"I don't need to hear your pitiful whinging right now, Little Johnny,' sniggered Victor. "I imagine that you'll tell Dimitri everything he wants to know. He has that way about him," said Trevor chuckling to himself.

The car sped off with the army doctor trapped inside. John had no way of knowing if Sherlock was safe or even if he was alive. Christ, Mycroft had to help the World's Only Consulting Detective. Please God, let Sherlock and Ahsan be all right. I don't care what you do with me, but please let them be all right.\

* * *

"No," yelled Sherlock. "I have to find John. Let me go." The furious detective struggled to free himself from Mitchell and one of the other agents. Sherlock's jaw clenched in fury, while the muscles of his neck turned rigid. The traitorous Ahsan had apparently already surrendered to the agents.

"Look we were sent by your brother, Mycroft Holmes. We're here to help you,"," yelled Mitchell. "We don't know who got him, but Watson was abducted three or four hours ago. _We're working on it_. If you want to help him, then help us. Look we've got to go now. The Mexican Federal Police are willing to turn a blind eye on your escape as a favor to Britain, but we have to move fast before they change their minds. Will you please just get in the van, so we can get the hell out of here and figure out what to do next to help your friend?"

Sherlock froze, as his mind reeled. His pulse and respirations raced. Heart pounding, skin perspiring, stomach cramping, these are all physical signs of panic, thought the detective. But that's impossible. I do not panic. John is lost. John cannot be lost. I told him to escape. He must have escaped, and I cannot be feeling panic.

Mitchell picked up the immobile detective and threw him into the van. The thin man landed on top of Morstan and Ahsan in a tangle of limbs. Morstan muttered a few rather piquant curses under her breath, while Ahsan tried to shove the lanky detective off the petite woman.

Mitchell climbed over all of them to get into the back of the van. He was followed by the last two agents, who scrambled in. Immediately, the vehicle sped off, driven by another unknown minion.

Sherlock's mind continued to fire randomly. I handcuffed John in his room. Was John captured because I tapped him there? John must be hiding. I kissed John, but I didn't tell him that I love him. If John was in danger, he would run or hide. John cannot be lost. Surely, John has to know that I love him. He knows that I'll come after him…

"We have to get John," said Sherlock, trying to control his panting and his thinking.

"Listen to me," insisted Mary, roughly pushing Ahsan back against the seat so that she could look at the detective while she talked, "Just listen, Holmes. Someone dragged Watson out of the Hotel at around 4 am, hours ago. One of our agents got a cleaning person to tell us what she saw. John was met in the lobby by three tall men. One was skinny, but the other two were very big. They were mostly speaking a language that the cleaner didn't recognize. Then the men took John to a black car. He didn't seem to be struggling, but a large man held each of his arms. According to the cleaner, Watson had no obvious injuries other than a cut on his face. Neither his room nor the lobby showed any signs of a struggle. You'll want to see his phone eventually. There's apparently some texts on his phone, that seem to explain why he surrendered to whoever it was that took them."

"One other thing," added Mitchell. "MI6 searched the hotel, they found the word 'Vicky' written on the wall of the staircase with a pen. They also found a pen at the bottom of the stairs. It's being analyzed now, but they've already lifted some prints from the pen. The prints match John Watson."

Victor? Victor Trevor took John? I will kill him. I will kill him painfully. Any harm that John suffers, Victor will suffer twice over.

"Vicky!" spat Ahsan. "I know Vicky. Vicky means Victor Trevor. John Watson calls him Vicky because he's a lowlife drug pusher, and he was very rude to John Watson in Dallas. And, I know some of you too. You are CIA. You are Ms. Mary Morstan and Mr. Mitchell whose first name I do not know. I don't know the other CIA agents."

"Not CIA, at least not right now" said Morstan, pulling off her black wig and shaking out her blond hair.

"Morstan and I have been reassigned to assist MI6," said Mitchell. "We won't work with Jones anymore. We know he's compromised, but we have no proof, yet. These two guys back here are actually MI6, and the driver, he's CIA, like Morstan and I used to be.

"Why are we leaving Juarez? I need to look for John Watson; I need to look for evidence…" said Sherlock.

"I told you," said Mitchell slowly. "You have to leave Mexico now. MI6 has combed the hotel inside and out. They are not complete imbeciles, despite what you might think. And Watson is long gone. A private jet owned by Sergi Kristoff, who just happens to be Dimitri's cousin, took off from the airport of Ciudad Juarez more than three hours ago. I think we can assume that John Watson is over a thousand miles away from here by now. It's anybody's guess where they'll take him."

"I don't guess; I deduce, but I need facts. I need to see John's phone, his notebook, anything that you have," said the detective. He tried to shove all his useless emotions into his Mind Palace. He tried to lock away all his mental images of John (John laughing, John the blushing lover, John the hero running from the Russian Mafia, John naked and looking at Sherlock with lust in his eyes, John a prisoner with a cut on his face, John the soldier shooting at the attackers at the gas station, John sleeping with touseled hair, John leaning against a wall giggling after a chase, John getting shot execution style...)

"I need a laptop now,' continued the detective trying to hide his shaky breath. "I need descriptions of the jet with its tail number. You need to search all the West Coast Airports for the private jet, search north of here. The route via the southern hemisphere would be a large and costly detour. They have to be heading to Asia, and they'll need to stop and refuel. They'll probably stop in California and Alaska but I cannot be sure which airports. We'll need to figure in the jets probable range and the weather conditions. We could use the advice of an experienced pilot."

"You think Dimitri is heading back to Russia…" began Mitchell.

"No, no, no! Try not to be an idiot," snapped Sherlock. "I don't have time for idiots. John is the map that everyone wants. Now, Dimitri has the map. He will obviously take John to Afghanistan. John has said several times that the locations are not marked in any way. They were never mapped by GPS. Dimitri will have to keep John alive, since John will have to personally lead them to each cache."

Ahsan looked up as they crossed the Bridge of the Americas back into El Paso, Texas. "How did you find me and Sherlock Holmes at the police station?"

"John texted Mycroft Holmes. It seems it was the last thing he did before he was taken, by that Victor Trevor fellow," said Morstan.

"Not Victor, we call him Vicky because he is a bloody, little bastard and a low-life drug pusher. Get it bloody right," said Ahsan. "And now you must give Sherlock Holmes the phone of John Watson and the computer that he needs so that he can help us save John Watson."

Almost everyone turned to look at Ahsan. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the young man.

"What? Sherlock Holmes is the World's Greatest Detective; John Watson has told me this," said Ahsan. "So Sherlock Holmes will find John Watson, and we will help him because you will have orders from the British Government who likes to give orders and doesn't like leg work. I will help because I will one day be a soldier of fortune like John Watson." Ahsan nodded for emphasis, "Oh, and can I call you Mary?" Ahsan added with a brilliant smile for Mary Morstan.

"I need a phone at the very least," demanded Sherlock, glaring at Ahsan. "I need one now."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes needs a phone," echoed Ahsan. "Please to give me one of yours. Hurry, we have to time for wasting!" Mary dug out her phone and handed it to Ahsan, who handed it to the consulting detective.

Sherlock quickly dialed Mycroft's private number using Morstan's mobile phone.

"Agent Morstan I presume,"said Mycroft tersely.

"Mycroft…" began Sherlock.

"Sherlock! I understand that you have been freed, at no small expense I might add. Your timing is terrible as always, you have interrupted an important meeting with the Mexican ambassador and the assistant of the American ambassador. We are discussing the international incident that you and your friends very nearly precipitated," said Mycroft coldly.

"Dimitri has John," said Sherlock curtly.

"I know, Sherlock," said Mycroft searching for a better response.

"I need to find John," persisted Sherlock, "They will certainly hurt him when he doesn't give them the information that they want. They will be taking him to Afghanistan…"

"Sherlock, I assure you that I am most eager to reacquire Captain Watson, and I am in contact with other governments who are equally concerned," said Mycroft with a sigh.

"You must help me to find John…" said Sherlock.

"No, you may assist us, in locating Captain Watson. You may even be allowed to directly assist in his rescue, but only if you follow my directions," said the British Government speaking more harshly. "You will come home at once. You will work with the agents assigned to this case. You will coöperate with your assigned handlers…"

"I must follow John now!" barked the detective, feeling the panic building again. This was taking too long; this was all going to take too long.

"Sherlock, listen to reason. Kristoff's jet has already been located at LAX, abandoned. We have no idea where they took Captain Watson next. Watson could be somewhere in California or on another private aircraft to Timbuktu, for all we know. Obviously, there is no way to follow him," said Mycroft. "You will come back to London…"

"No, no, no!" shouted Sherlock, more furious than ever with his less than helpful brother "Obviously, they will take him to South Asia to look for the nukes. Obviously, they will head up the West Coast to refuel before crossing the Pacific. The trail must be clear, even to the idiots that you hire. I insist on heading to California and then north up the West Coast. If I am given access to the appropriate data bases, I can determine precisely where they are going. I already asked that all West Coast airports be watched; maybe you could assist in that and stop wasting my time."

"Sherlock, your methods did not keep Dr. Watson safe…"began Mycroft.

Sherlock gasped because Mycroft was indeed correct; he had not kept John safe, still... "And neither did your methods, brother," hissed Sherlock venomously. "Furthermore, you conspired with the CIA to embroil John in this fiasco. You could have simply asked us to find your stupid nukes, and John and I would have been done with this by now. But no, you made this needlessly complicated and inexcusably endangered my John."

"I was merely protecting you, Sherlock," replied Mycroft, with a long-suffering sigh. "This mission was never meant for you. It is too dangerous and…"

"So you send my John on a suicide mission alone, when John and I are supposed to work together. Now that you have bolloxed this up and endangered the life of John Watson, you _will_ assist me. You will let me follow him, _my_ way," demanded Sherlock.

"Your John? Really, Sherlock, sentiment from you? You do remember that sentiment is a liability?" said the British Government, sternly.

"Yes, Mycroft. My John. He is mine. You will never have him and neither will anyone else," yelled Sherlock. He looked around at the others. He needed John right now to deal with his fat, stupid brother.

Sherlock suddenly spotted a potential assistant. He shoved the phone at Ahsan. "Ahsan, deal with this…this person for me. Make sure he provides a private jet for us. We will need to move swiftly. Well go on, Ahsan. You have been listening, make the arrangements."

Nonplussed, Ahsan stared at the pale detective for a moment. Mycroft's tinny voice could be heard issuing instructions from the mobile phone.

"Well, move it along, Ahsan. Time is of the essence," commanded Sherlock."Please," he added grudgingly.

The attractive young man took a deep breath and sat up straight, just like John Watson. He even rubbed the bridge of his nose, like the absent doctor. "OK. Shut up then, Mr. British Government," said Ahsan into the phone.

"Who is this?" demanded the affronted British Government.

"I am Ahsan Guhlam. I am the assistant of Dr. John Watson, who is the assistant and exclusive and permanent partner of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the World's Best Detective and so I am now the temporary assistant of Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Ahsan. "OK. He requires a jet so that he can follow and rescue Dr. John Watson. Otherwise you will miss the ship and it will sail away with your weapons and it will all be on top of your head."

"Very good Ahsan, but it's miss the boat…" murmured Sherlock.

"You shut up, as I am in bargaining now," Ahsan whispered back to the detective.

"What you ask for is impossible," said Mycroft silkily.

"Oh no. John Watson has told me all about what you can do, Mycroft Holmes. So nothing is impossible," said the earnest young negotiator. "Now Mr. Sherlock Holmes needs a jet and funds, in cash, and satellite phones that will not be traceable and two laptops in case one gets damaged and he needs them all the day before yesterday."

"What could Dr. Watson possibly have said about me? I fill a minor post in the British Government," said the British Government.

"Oh yes. He said you'd say that. He knew and now I know that you_ are_ the British Government, which is obvious anyway since the CIA is working for you already. I am not so stupid you know," said Ahsan.

Mycroft cleared his throat, a possible sign of weakening, thought Sherlock with a temporary sense of victory. "Nevertheless Mr. Guhlam, I will need to speak to my brother…"

"No. He is done speaking with you. He is busy thinking. That is his job. He does the thinking and he will tell us how to find John Watson," Ahsan took another breath before he continued. "John Watson told me that this might all be happening, and now I have to try to fill his massive shoes and assist and protect Sherlock Holmes until John Watson is back. I have all my instructions. Now stop wasting the time, please. Make your counter offer. I thought you were a diplomat not a time waster."

Mycroft sighed, "Fine. I will consider sending a jet but Sherlock, and you I suppose, must agree to work with Mitchell's team and the handlers I send on the jet. Sherlock must abide by his handler's decisions if it involves his safety or the success of the mission. And the goal must be to secure the weapons."

"He means the jet is already en-route, and find out the names of the handlers," murmured Sherlock. "And no deal that sacrifices John."

"Fine," said Ahsan. "Who? Who are your handlers? And the first goal is to find and save John Watson, and then we can secure your secret weapons."

"John Watson would agree that the safety of the weapons comes first," said Mycroft smugly.

"John Watson is not bargaining. Ahsan Guhlam is negotiating for Sherlock Holmes, and we say his safety is more important. Anyway, how do think to find your secret weapons without John Watson?" said Ahasn triumphantly.

"Fine. Watson and the weapons are equal priority, and my brother will follow his handler's advice," conceded Mycroft.

"Not without we know who are the handlers," said the young negotiator.

"Friends of Sherlock Holmes," said Mycroft with an edge to his voice.

"I don't have any friends," whispered Sherlock.

"Yes you do; you are even much more stubborn than John Watson said. And so is your brother," Ahsan whispered back.

" I heard that," said Mycroft unamused.

"We are still wasting the valuable time. Who are the handlers Mycroft Holmes," demanded Ahsan.

"Gregory Lestrade, an old friend of Sherlock's." said Mycroft. Sherlock made a tsk'ing sound. "And Irene Adler, another old friend. They both have my full confidence, and this is non-negotiable."

"Oh my God! You are the snake in the grass like my friend John Watson warned me. You will be trying to break the exclusive and permanent partnership of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes with The Woman from Hell. Yes, yes I know all about her. No I do not agree…"

"Ahsan, I think I can handle The Woman," said Sherlock relishing the upcoming challenge.

"Oh yes, like you handled Vicky," hissed Ahsan, furiously. "You are maybe an idiot after all. I shall make you sorry if you pull any more Vicky stunts on Captain John Watson, Sherlock Holmes."

"You have changed, Ahsan. You never used to be rude or pushy," said the affronted detective. "And you can be left behind, if you become difficult."

"Oh no, he's coming, with me if necessary," said Mary Morstan. "He obviously has the measure of you and your brother too. Ahsan is definitely an asset to this team. It's impressive how well Johnny trained him, in such a short period of time…"

"And John Watson hates being called Johnny," said Ahsan, turning on the former CIA agent. "He will be called John Watson in front of me. And I can find my way all by myself to where John Watson is going if I have to. He already told us once when he was trying to give you his mental map. I am not so stupid just because I have an accent you know."

"Clearly," huffed the World's Only Consulting Detective. Mary smiled encouragingly at Ahsan.

"If we may conclude our negotiations Mr. Guhlam. I do have matters of state that await," said Mycroft with a superior tone.

"Fine. I will be watching your Fem-fatality Woman most closely. Don't forget the cash, phones and laptops and also I will need a handgun, a Sig Sauer P226 or Walther PPK will be most good. Yes, yes and make that two guns because John Watson will need one when I find him, even if some detective decides to mess with Femininely Fatal Women instead of worrying about war heroes who are brave and loyal and who expected a permanently exclusive relationship." Sherlock rolled his eyes and tilted his head to give Ahsan his patented death glare. The young man, having been prepared by the missing army doctor, ignored the glare.

"Very well, Mr. Guhlam, I believe that we have an agreement," said Mycroft secretly quite pleased that Sherlock would have several trusted handlers to supervise him, including the fierce young negotiator.

"Very well yourself, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. At what time will we find the jet at the El Paso airport?" asked Ahsan.

"Sherlock told you," said the British Government flatly.

"Maybe, maybe not," said Ahsan, in an airy imitation of consulting detective complete with hand movements. Mary and Mitchell both chuckled with appreciation.

"I am told the jet is available now," said Mycroft Holmes. "Your handlers will be in touch with agent Morstan and will meet up with you at LAX or in Anchorage. I look forward to dealing with you again Mr. Guhlam; you show promise. Tell my brother goodbye and good luck."

Sherlock grimaced. "Tell my brother to stop being an insufferable know-it-all. Well, you should have asked for my violin, Ahsan. Unlike my brother, I am not so impressed with your negotiations."

"You should have asked me to ask for the violin. I am not the mind reader, Sherlock Holmes," returned Ahsan. "And you were the one who accepted the handlers when Mycroft Holmes wants to play games with A Fatally Feminine Woman and break John Watson's heart again. John Watson will probably go out an shoot more snakes now, and that will be your stupid fault."

"It's femme fatale," snarled Sherlock. "and I know how to keep my promises, so John will not have to go out and shoot a snake. This is ridiculous. I refuse to discuss snakes. I refuse to discuss this at all. Someone needs to get the phones and laptops before we get to the airport. When will I have access to John's phone? When can I interview the agents who examined the hotel and no doubt missed all the vital clues? Well, Ahsan, since you are the negotiator, please make the appropriate arrangements. In the meantime, I must think so all idiotic conversation must cease."

Idiots. I am surrounded by idiots. As if The Woman could compare to John. Good God, does everyone think that I cannot tell the difference between iron pyrite and gold?* John is so obviously superior to anyone else. John.

John had a cut on his face. Where else has he been hurt? Where will they take him? Will they torture him immediately, or will they wait? It's only a matter of time.

I must find John.

There was a vast emptiness in his chest as he worried about his blogger in the hands of the Russian mafia. This was terrible. It was beyond terrible. He needed his army doctor back safely.

Oh for God's sake, John, thought Sherlock, please just tell them something, anything to gain time. Just give them what ever they want. We can fix things afterward. Please don't be heroic, John. Please just hold on until we find you.

* * *

Mycroft returned to his meeting. "My apologies, gentleman. As I am sure you understand, the situation is very fluid at this time and it requires constant supervision"

"Mr. Holmes, you and your brother have allowed Captain Watson to surrender himself to the Russian," began the angry American. "Dimitri will obtain the nukes in no time. Your Captain is probably already talking to protect his precious boyfriend, if not to protect himself…"

"Ambassador, _your_ agent Jones screwed up the mission right from the beginning. Had he been honest, had Captain Watson trusted him, we might have had the nukes in our hands already. It was clearly Jones who fed information straight to Dimitri. He directly contributed to the abduction of Captain Watson, a decorated war hero and a family friend. Clearly, the chances that Captain Watson will survive this fiasco are becoming slim, thanks to American operatives," returned the British Government, "As for Captain Watson revealing any significant information, I am quite certain that he will die before delivering the weapons to an enemy. I suspect that he would even sacrifice his partner, if it meant saving the lives of thousands, although that would surely destroy the Captain in the process."

"Gentlemen, your arguments are pointless. I might complain that my country should have been advised before these men infiltrated Mexico, no?" said the Mexican Ambassador. "Still, it is, as you say, water under the bridge. Let us forget our complaints and arguments. Let us move us forward. Mr. Holmes, I would like to know, what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we locate Captain Watson, and, if possible, reacquire him," said Mycroft. "Failing that, we must be prepared to intercept anyone attempting to remove sensitive materials out of Afghanistan or Pakistan."

"That's a hell of lot of territory to cover. Why don't we just sacrifice the Captain. Shoot his plane out of the sky, then nobody gets the nukes?" said the American.

The Mexican Ambassador shook his head sympathetically, as Mycroft smiled at the stupid man, "To begin with, we do not know where our Captain is, which makes shooting him out of the sky rather difficult even for your military. Secondly, we do not _want_ to sacrifice Captain Watson, because then no one will know where the nukes are until someone accidentally finds them. Unfortunately, that will almost certainly be the Taliban since they know the territory. And I assure you, they are currently combing the country side searching for the weapons, thanks to Jones and his leaks."

"Although it would be difficult personally, I would not hesitate to sacrifice our Captain Watson if I thought it in England's best interest. However, it is clearly not advisable. I have deployed our best people, including a couple of American volunteers,who shall remain nameless given our lack of security to date. One of our teams will find and reacquire Watson. I view this as a delay, not a defeat," said the smarmy British Government.

"And is your brother, the Captain's boyfriend, on one of these teams?" asked the American, wearing a nasty smirk.

The temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees. "Sherlock Holmes is uniquely qualified to find Captain Watson. In fact, I doubt that we will succeed without his assistance. His hypothetical personal relationship with Watson is irrelevant," said the Iceman. The abrasive American, obviously a political appointee, would have to be recalled almost immediately; Mycroft did not think he could stand any more meetings with the imbecile. The British Government would contact the American Ambassador almost immediately. Thank God the American Ambassador was not an idiot.

"And, given his reputation, who will help to control the younger and famously impetuous Mr. Holmes," asked the Mexican Ambassador, politely yet firmly.

"I have arranged for handlers for my younger brother, and he has agreed to coöperate with them," said Mycroft with a strained smile. "I belive that there is no more for us to do until we get more information. I have a number of phone calls to make, gentleman. Let us all keep in touch with one another, shall we?."

Mycroft watched the two men leave the room, bickering over some trade agreement. The British Government poured himself a glass of brandy. He idly spun a the globe sitting on the sideboard.

Where would Dimitri be most likely to go? Singapore, Shanghai, Bangkok, Kolkata? The powerful criminal had a power base in each city.

It was time to begin working with the various ambassadors so that forces could be mobilized, once Dimitri shows his hand. Captain Watson really must be reacquired. Aside from the questions of international terrorism and nuclear threats, John Watson had managed to become a necessity for Mycroft's younger brother.

Irene Adler might be able to attract Sherlock away from Captain Watson, but really the possibility was very slim. At best, Mycroft gave her a 10-15% probability of success with his brother, Sherlock. He wasn't even sure if he prefered her over the Captain. Now that she was under Mycroft's thumb, she was very easy to control, which Mycroft greatly desired. And she was probably safer for Sherlock in the long run. Still, the army Captain, however dangerous, had made great strides with Sherlock and at least he was honest...

He spun the globe again and finished his brandy. He rang for his PA, the woman sometimes known as Anthea.

"Please send in the Chinese Ambassador as soon as he arrives," he told the woman who was typing busily on her smart phone. "You have ensured the safety of Mrs. Hudson and Harriet Watson? You have initiated surveillance over the Captain's other friends?"

"Yes, everything is done, sir, as you requested," she replied.

"Excellent," he smiled. Then frowned. "Oh, and don't forget to send some flowers to Mummy; she was very displeased with me. Send a dozen roses. She is siding with Sherlock once again."

The British Government sighed, thinking, 'Mummy always liked Sherlock best.'

Mummy would be very displeased, if Mycroft did not reacquire that army Captain. "Make that two dozen roses, my dear. And before I meet with the Chinese Ambassador, get me first Agent Mitchell and then Detective Inspector Lestrade on the phone. I need to make sure we reacquire that troublesome army doctor as soon as possible."

"Which army doctor?" asked his PA, typing away.

"Why, Doctor John Watson of course."

**The End-for now**

* * *

**A/N**

*Iron pyrite is fool's gold.

My spanish is undoubtedly as poor as my French or Latin. Please excuse my mistakes. Please correct any mistakes via PM or reviews.

This ends My Apologies. The sequel, Into the Fire, should begin in a week or two at the most; I hope. (Please note that my fingers are crossed, because stuff happens.) (Please also note that the title of the sequel is tentative, because I almost always end up disliking the titles of my fics.)

Thank you to everyone who read, followed and favorited My Apologies.

Thanks InuChimera7410, Wicked Winter, darkhearted243, AiLovesS, SamuelE8688, power0girl, Rose O'Sharon, I'm Nova and ruvy91 for reviewing Chapter 21, your reviews and comments mean the world to me.

An extra big THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed my fic, often more than once, because your comments really help me to improve my writing and your encouragement motivates me so very much.

**Disclaimer**-I do not own the rights to Sherlock or Watson. This fiction is intended purely as light entertainment for myself and like-minded Johnlock shippers.


End file.
